Dusk Falling
by AlyGardiner
Summary: Almost two years after the events of TFT, Sylar and Claire are still picking up the pieces of their lives. Meanwhile, Peter may rise again, but so might the unwanted shadows coming towards them.
1. Like Clockwork

**Title: **Dusk Falling

**Summary: **While Claire and Sylar try to pick up the pieces of their lives, Peter's resurrection may just bring unexpected company to their midst. Little did they know, that wasn't the biggest threat as the impending 'accidents' keep piling up and the footsteps are leading towards them.

**Disclaimer:** Everything belongs to their respective owners. Some people and organizations belong to yours truly.

**A/N: **The Return! Ok two things you need to know. Claire was never a redhead (my friends were against it) and ever since the kids were born, she has been a brunette.

Importante: The date is **July 12th 2012.** ENJOY!!

**

* * *

**

**Chapter One**

**"Like Clockwork"**

**Precision, something we strive to be one way or another. As the clock ticks away, our lives flee like sand in the wind, as the the clock tocks, we feel our beings float from the ground. Every second counted monotonously on a clock that never rewinds, that only goes forward. Life is like clockwork, one goes tick, one goes tock. Life is here, be careful, don't drop. **

Crestblade Headquarters, London

No one saw the man in black in the hallways, his silhouette trailing on the pathway that was lit with numerous lights. No one heard his footsteps, the ghost remnants of steps, walking down hallways, passing rooms and climbing up stairs to his destination. It was schedule, this was the time the man would climb out of bed, leave his sleeping bedmate alone in his bed in tangled sheets and walk like a phantom through the building.

It used to be stuff of gossip, a ghost creeping up on them but once an innocent on-looker saw him, the familiar face of an occupant of the building, and the rumors were laid to rest. It was innocent, this once a month visit, it wasn't to plot murder or something of that sort, it was merely something for the man's soul.

The room was hidden deep within their clandestine caves, at the back of the building and the back of anyone's mind. No one understood his fixation with the room, it didn't comfort him or soothe him like his companions did, but maybe that was why he kept coming back all these months, it didn't hurt him either. It was a background, a harmless drop for him and his thoughts that seemed to emerge when he stepped into the room.

It wasn't a special room of any sort; the only thing that seemed to stand out was the metal table in the middle of the room, something he marked one March night with a knife in his hand. The light still came out from the dull-curtained window on the left side, just like all the other rooms, the walls were still painted green like the other unused rooms, that hadn't been made into restrooms or bedrooms for their occupants.

One thing that this room had that the others didn't was a rich mahogany clock on the green wall he detested. It had been 4 o'clock ever since he got here, always has been and always will be. He actually made a request to have the clock to stay exactly where it was. No one understood why, one of the many eccentrics that came from having this man as an occupant so they just said yes to it and had the clock stay there forever.

His departed boss once said it was a masterpiece of time, something etched and carved with precision, but what he found wonderful about it were the clock hands. He noticed that, despite the ticking sounds it still made, it made no change on time. To move a second only to move back, hence the monotonous sound that seemed to ring in his ears. It seemed a mystery to that 4 o'clock. What happened at 4 o'clock that made the clock stop?

The man had a tag on his jacket, in scribbled handwriting, it read Michaelson. Michaelson was a handsome man, tall, fit with dark hair; he was hardly ever without his smile. Today was one of the rare occasions.

Ten months he'd been here, landed in this heap of a mess, living this life, making himself out of nothing. Ten months it had been, since he'd woken up to the scent of sea and a brain of black. A few weeks after his arrival, alone in his cell, Michaelson blossomed the fact that he was, in fact, special.

Special, different, any other verbs that could describe the things that were happening to him whenever he woke up in his little cell, he was those things. He woke up once and he could make his lunch tray that went through the little vent levitate off his table, the next he cut himself accidentally with a knife and found that, even if he bled, he still healed beyond any explanation.

Over the weeks, in his cell, under observation and on-looking curious eyes, he learned more to adapt, to learn, to evolve. He learned to concentrate on one solid object and make it move without using the slight twitch of his fingers and he learned that he could heal from any mortal wound, fire, sword, anything the corporate guys could throw at him for fun, and he would still come out unharmed with numerous bloodstains but with no cuts or bruises or burns.

He got out solitary a mere week later, after consults saying he was stable and was fit enough to join the rest. They made him sound like a psych patient, in need for some meds for them. But he was fine, he joined the first four-man team Crestblade ever saw, joining the midst was her. The woman who would feed him his conscience, saying that neither of them needed anyone, and both of them needed to grow tough skin for the outside world.

He did. He built himself brick by brick starting on the foundation of nothing and stood tall, because she was right from the very beginning. Don't get too attached, it's only trouble; don't get too involved, you'll end up disappointed. She spoke as if from experience. But she was right. He would stand on his own two feet and would turn down every offer of crutches.

He still had friends, sure, he wasn't completely apathic to his development, but he made sure not to sink in too deep into the quick sand. So that was where it all began, he began picking up women from the streets, needed a simple fix, or picked up an innocent young woman from assignments before she was trapped up in solitary.

Then came the drinking, the bars and booze under his bed, his stash that he kept just in case he needed it, no one ever said anything about it, he drank normal amounts, just enough for him to space out and avoid vomit on their floor. He was the normal mother's figment of bad, he drank, he used women for simple, primal needs, he was a known killer, cocking every gun he could find or use his own powers to kill. He wasn't a good guy, but, despite what all of them though, he wasn't a bad one, either. He still helped, and did the job that was ordered to do.

The door opened, leaving a trail of light, a glimmer of the outside world. A head peeked through the door, and he realized it was one of the second-command men. This one was the man who lost his wife a few months ago. Poor guy. The bags under his green eyes gave away his insomnia and restlessness to sleep in the night, and his brown hair was ruffled and disheveled.

The other man noticed the brown files in his hands, and immediately hopped off the metal slab and asked, "Assignment?"

"Yup, this one's in New York City," he gave the files to him. "You up for it, Michaelson?"

The man, Michaelson, the one who had been deliberating his life and going through his memories, nodded and answered with a confident, "Always, Brian."

Brian nodded at the man and looked right at him and gave him a play-by-play, "It's in the afternoon, be incognito, this woman here might be wanted by the others, so be careful and always be armed. You hear me, Michaelson? We don't need anymore casualties. "

"Of course, Brian. I'll be armed and I'll be careful, because since when am I not? And call me by my first name, will you? I'm not corporate," Michaelson smiled at him. "So I'll be needing my team for this?"

"Nope, this is your mission. Solo this time," Brian explained.

"Solo, huh? This woman must be important," Michaelson glanced down at the files.

"Not that important, Lincoln just thought it was time," Brian shrugged.

"Lincoln's dead, you know that, right?" the other man asked him.

"Just because he's dead, doesn't mean his plans are, and he always had a lot in mind for you," he said, speaking of their departed boss.

"My, don't I feel special," Michaelson chuckled.

"Now, sleep, you'll need it for tomorrow," Brian said, huffily. It seemed ever since Lincoln's death, Brian had felt obligated to be the straight-up man for him. It wasn't like he and Lincoln were even close; he just felt it was his responsibility.

"Right o, boss," Michaelson said, tucking the files in his jacket.

"Get back to Elle, she'll be worried or something," Brian said, starting towards the door.

"Elle's never worried," Michaelson said. "G'night, boss."

Brian sighed and, as he closed the door of the room, he said, "Goodnight, Peter."

* * *

Petrelli-Gray Residence, New York

Fragments of afternoon light escaped the outside world and entered the familial apartment, leaving a trail of light on the floor and peppered the white walls. Pictures shone on the counters, tables and mantelpieces, giving out the impression that the family was one of those memory keeping families, each of their precious moments captured in time and sealed in a pretty little frame, and, truth be told, they were.

One by one, memories lined up, from baby pictures to a couple standing in each other's arms joyfully, dozens of them scattered around the apartment. Although it seemed like it was full of joy and happiness and cookies with milk, the apartment sounded empty with grief, except a dark-haired man sitting at the kitchen table. He was gripping on his 'Have a Good Day' mug with a smiley face plastered on top of it, but it was still half full, he didn't seem to be in much of a drinking mood.

Gabriel 'Sylar' Gray could count the days it's been like this, with the only person awake was him and he would be pondering, thinking over the details he's left out when he's always accompanied, but it wouldn't matter anyway. It had been almost two months of him like this, insomnia-fuelled nights and waking up earlier than everyone else, rustling up his tangled sheets and making ghost-like steps so that he won't wake up his significant other.

He didn't know why, but it seemed like something inside of him triggered every so slightly, and it ruined him bit by bit. He tried to stop it, to sleep, to toss and turn and forget, it never worked. He sighed, his chest rising and falling as he did. He was a handsome man, with prominent features, his parentage caused him to look like a good-looking Italian, from his father's side, though he couldn't quite think of Daniel Linderman as his father and Natasha Christensen as the woman who carried both him and his twin around for nine months and spent two years doing a swell job as a mother just yet.

That was why he just stuck with Gray all these years, Gabriel Sylar would do no good, and he couldn't wear Linderman as his tab either, he grew up a Gray, mundane and normal, and he was going to live as a Gray. Sylar realized something today, these days and nights, restlessness that triggered two months ago, had already been happening for ten months, only once a month, then.

Every month, on the 12th, it would happen. He racked his mind for a reason, for a why, for an answer, a solution, what happened on the 12th? His brother died on the 21st, so it couldn't be that, something in him always thought it was a prediction. Something would happen on the 12th, someday, one day he might just wake up and everything would change. It wouldn't be this month, apparently.

Sylar shifted in his seat, and watched the view from the table. It was reaching afternoon, and, soon, he would leave this house, bid his polite goodbyes and be hidden behind bookshelves of a New York library. Just another day for him.

"Morning," someone says. Sylar looks up from the table and sees a dark-haired Claire, rubbing her eyes, her hair as disheveled as his is.

"It's almost afternoon," Sylar noted.

"Is it?" she asked, sitting down next to him. "Afternoon, then."

She kisses him slightly, a form of embracement and adoration after these four years together, with him being a glorified martyr for her, and she being the same old cheerleader needing to be saved all the time. Different knight, same story. Sylar checked his namesake and saw the time. "I've got to get going," he said.

"Alright, then," Claire smiled at him.

It started normal enough, with Sylar looking at Claire, almost observing her behavior. Then it suddenly swerved when Claire noted how he and Peter were so alike. How they always cared, and loved, then unresolved issues just burst out of him. Sprouting jealousy, envy and the fact that he would never measure up to Peter in Claire's eyes, he was always at the top of the list, then he brought up the kids, the family.

"You don't need me, do you? And you think that this family's so much better without me, is that it?" he yelled.

"Don't you dare! Don't you dare question your place in this family; they are as much your children as they are mine!" Claire argued. Her face was full of anger, and he didn't want that to happen, but he just pushed and pushed her to her boundary. So much so that he couldn't stop the next few words that were erupting through him.

"But not as much as Peter's, right?" he asked. He was answered by a sudden, sullen silence, a veil over them that he couldn't take off. She looked down, her green eyes fixated on the ground and her dark hair falling over her face.

"Truth is, Claire, if Peter walked through that door, you would drop everything for him. Say that the kids are his, and suddenly everything I've done for you for the last four years don't matter anymore," Sylar says, almost silently to the core. "And that would thoroughly prove what I've been thinking all this time. I'm just a sore replacement for Peter."

"Get out," Claire crossed her arms, but she still wasn't making eye-contact. "You said you needed to go, so go."

He didn't correct her, didn't tell her that he could stay if she wanted to, as long as they reconciled. She heard him put on a jacket and the jingling of his house keys and he left, as per her request, without as much as a goodbye.

* * *

Room 418, Crestblade

Peter was packing. Not so much that he needed a knapsack to sling over his back, enough to put in his jacket pockets. Money, guns, fake IDs, the whole enchilada to bring on a standard, that and his abilities, that was. He looked through his tangled sheets for something, but found something else entirely. In his hands were pieces of messy papers. He sighed.

Of course, he thought. His dreams had little improvements. Gone were the restless nights, but, with this improvement coming into play, the drawings did, too. Hues of black and white transferred from his mind to the medium of paper. He never remembered waking up and getting a pen and scribbling incoherent things that never made sense in the morning, he just woke up and there they were.

He sat down on his bed and flipped through the new set. It showed a young woman, dark-haired with her face down, her back against a padded wall, something out of a mental institution. The other showed a dark-haired man and a short-haired blonde girl in the glow of numerous TV screens.

As always, Peter didn't know who these people were or what they meant to him. He learned a long time ago that amnesia was a bitch to him. Sure, some people got it for clean slates, but, so far, his road was dusty and useless.

"Hey, there," someone said, Peter looked up and saw his bedmate, Elle.

"Right back at ya," Peter put down the pictures on the counter.

"Packing, are we?" Elle asked, wrapping her arms around his waist possessively.

"Assignment," Peter turned around quickly and kissed her, hot on the mouth.

Soon, she was responding with heat and burying her hands in his raven hair. Her hands then trailed down his face and his neck, sending electrical shocks, tiny but all the same shocking, through his skin. He bit her lip accidentally out of shock and drew back from her.

"Mmm," Elle said, licking her lips playfully. She sat down on his bed and looked up to a packing Peter. "So why didn't I get wind of a new assignment?"

"First solo, m'lady, I don't need anyone babysitting me this time," Peter smirked.

"Since when have you ever?" Elle laid back.

"So I've got to get going, if you haven't gotten the hint," he said.

"No time for this?" she asked, creating a ball of blue in her hands.

"Sorry, Elle, I'm a limited man," Peter shrugged.

"Fine, then," Elle got up and started to the door. "See ya later."

Peter didn't really know how to describe what Elle was to him. They liked each other, were friends when the door closed behind them and the sheets were made into their usual clean manner, and enjoyed each other when the lights dimmed around them. They just didn't know how to describe each other.

It was bond, dysfunctional, and it was known through their tight-knitted group in the building, but, at least it was a bond. She was a beautiful thing, she carried herself with some kind of confidence he immediately found appealing, and no one could deny her beauty. Blonde hair, straight and cascaded down to her back, and blue eyes with striking lashes she always used during their encounters. She was playful, eccentric, fun, a kitten, if put in a nice way, and he was her ball of yarn to play with.

Peter turned to get a fake ID saying his name was James Follett instead of Peter Michaelson, but saw that someone was in his way. This time, it wasn't Elle, it was Alice. The dark-haired young woman smiled at him, crossing her arms, giving him the ID while saying, "You know, they're thinking about making you godfather."

"I wouldn't be any good at that, they know me enough," Peter shrugged. "Hi, Al."

"Hi," Alice smiled sweetly. She was different than the rest, she was one of the few women he didn't take in his arms and become Don Juan with, she was different. "They just want you to be part of their kid's life."

"A kid that isn't even born yet and they've already picked out a name. Danielle something, right?" Peter asked.

"Daniella. And Matt and Daphne are optimists, that's why," Alice explained. Then she picked up what he was doing and asked, "Assignment?"

"First solo," Peter said for the second time today.

"Huh," Alice pondered.

"Jeez, be happy, will you? I've got more capabilities than what's evident, Al," Peter sneered.

Then something inside the young woman, about five or six years his junior, broke and it happened before him. Just when he was about to dip down to give her the customary kiss on the cheek, she got up and looked about as serious as a heart attack.

"Don't go," Alice said. "What the hell are you talking about?" Peter asked.

"Don't go," Alice repeated. "If you care about me in the slightest way possible, don't go. Just stay here and you can do as much shit as you want and get away with it. Please."

"Huh, that offer's quite tempting, but, what makes you think I care about you?" Peter asked.

"Why else would you stand to talk to me?" Alice looked up at him.

"Because I like to stand and I like to talk, the conversations just happen to take place with you," he sighed.

"You always think you don't need anyone," Alice was to the point of yelling now.

"Well, news flash, Al, I don't. And what is it about this mission that's so dangerous that I can't go?" Peter grilled her.

"Why are you so arrogant? Were you always this arrogant, this stubborn?" Alice asked.

"I wouldn't know!" Peter yelled. "I've only got ten months worth of memory stuck in this head of mine. You wouldn't know what it feels like to not know who the hell you really are! I woke up ten months ago with no memory, no nothing, you wouldn't know what it feels like, Alice." All these months, he thought he picked himself up, he thought this issue didn't matter anymore. Apparently it hadn't died down yet.

"We tried as much as we could to make feel you belong here," Alice looked down.

"Yeah, it worked sometimes but I can't be a pathetic comic strip all the time, Al," Peter sighed, trying to calm down, both his nerves and Alice's.

Something on her face changed, her expression changed not so drastically but Peter could notice, he's always been the observant person. She flinched and shifted, it was weird to watch. Unless she was hiding something.

"This is why you don't want me to go," Peter looked at her. "This woman's got something to do with my past, and you don't want me to find out. You want me to stay here and be your little pet. Well, too bad, but you should never have gotten Lincoln to cut off my leash." He passed her, no sorry, no correction, no nothing, just left without as much as a goodbye.

* * *

Near Hunter Bistro, New York

Nearly four years. Four years of picking up the pieces, so much so that their life was almost fixed, every fragment stuck by their Super Glue. But, today, another piece fell to floor and no one had the strength to bend down and put it back to where it belonged. Especially Claire.

For now, she was content enough wandering around, hands in her pockets, just deliberating and when she was done, she could call Sylar and tell him she loved him. Because she did, even if he didn't know why, but she did. With all her heart, she loved the man who cared enough to risk his own sleep and comfort her through the night during the early years of being together and she was still a mess.

She loved the man who introduced her to a different world, or, rather, a world she overlooked because of her dreaminess and whining. She could see with a different set of eyes, and see that her family meant something and she wasn't going to risk anything by doing anything out of the way.

A few vigilante jobs with Mia before, but nothing more, nothing drastic to be pulled on, no government plot or anything. She was fine with pulling kids out of burning building and escaping into the dead of night before they could inspect her for burns and bruises like her first time. She was fine with saving someone from a moving vehicle heading towards them and receiving grateful thanks before she went off without her identity revealed.

She was fine with this hybrid of a life, between the hero and the mother; she settled right in between, a rare kind, strong, independent woman who proved they could raise a family and still do something in the world. It might seem naïve but she was content, she was happy and it gave her a strange glow around her. She stopped once she saw the bistro, happy colors painted across it with a name on it that read 'Hunter'.

Claire smiled at that. She stepped inside and was greeted with a flow of people on tables and counters, coming in for their lunch promotion. She loved this place. Both singles and families came flocking in, it spanned for all age groups, in fact, she always thought of this place as somewhere that could be documented in a TLC special.

She sat at the counter, her legs hanging off the floor, and her elbows propped up in a dreamy manner. 21 years old, she was, but inside of her, she still kept the nativity. "Hiya, what can I get you?" a waitress asked her.

"Just get me Jen, please? Tell her it's Claire," Claire smiled at the teenager with a note pad and Southern hospitality kept intact although in the Big Apple. In a few moments, a blonde woman came through with a radiant smile.

"Claire!" she said happily. She embraced the dark-haired woman happily and pulled away and asked, "How are you? What brings you here all alone?"

"In need for comfort food and just plain comfort," Claire smiled. "How's Hunter?"

"Hunter is two, enough said," Jen smiled. "How's everything?"

"Fine," Claire answered. "Hannah and Michael are three, and the weight of abilities isn't really evident when you're a toddler."

"Great, but I wasn't asking about the kids, as much as I love them, I was asking about you," Jen said.

"Sylar and I had a fight. About Peter," Claire sighed, cupping her face in her hands.

"I should've guessed," the blonde said. "Come on, Sy's gonna forgive you. He always does. You two love each other and people who love each other figure things out. How do think me and Greg held on this long?" Claire chuckled.

"He loves you, Claire, just remember that. You'll always kiss and make up, even if it does touch the subject of Peter," Jen said, greeting the new customers with a smile.

"Hope so," the young mother looked up to her friend. The phone rings, shocking both of them and Jen laughs as she wipes the counter with a cloth and a smile. "What?" Claire asks.

"That's Sylar, right there. I can bet 5 bucks," Jen said playfully. Claire answered the phone and on the line, of course, was Sylar's calming voice.

"Claire? Yeah, I'm sorry about this morning. I was stupid and everything," he rambled on.

"It's fine, Sylar," Claire smiles to herself. "I shouldn't have brought it up. You're perfect just the way you are, Sy. You shouldn't need any comparisons to your brother."

"Thanks, Claire," Sylar said. Even over the phone, the young mother could see him smiling. "I'll see you back home."

"Yeah. And Sylar," she said before she hung up. "I love you."

"I love you, too," Sylar responded and the call ended.

"I better get back. The house feels like a home again," Claire said to Jen. The blonde woman shurgged and said cheerfully, "I'll walk you out, then."

* * *

There was a road dividing them. Cars passing and moving so they hardly noticed each other. On the right side was a bistro, quaint and homely with a pair of women outside, saying their goodbyes.

One was a dark-haired beauty, swept to the side when she embraced her friend, the tall, slim, blonde with an apron tied around her waist like a waitress's.

On the left side is a shady-looking fellow, his hands pocketed and breathing steadily. Dressed in black, some people shot curious stares at him. in his hands were files and he looked up to see that the brunette woman, the one who was saying her goodbyes were stepping in front of the road, and a car was rushing towards her.

The man started forward, trying to save the woman because the car wouldn't stop, it swerved and turned as if the woman was a target, and this car was the weapon meant to shoot. He never wanted to save someone as much as this woman. A perfect stranger but he felt the impulse to save her.

He didn't know why, but one word rang through his head: Cheerleader. It was like a burst of light and it kept repeating the word in his head until the car was really close. It happened in slow motion in his eyes. But he saved her, the cheerleader, that was all he knew. Then everything turned black.

* * *

A/N: So the Return! Tell me what you think!

-Aly


	2. Histories

**A/N: I** am disappointed in you guys! only 2 reviews for the opening chapter? Okay, then, here's your payback!

I need at least four reviews for this chapter, and those who reviewed on this chap will review on the last. Or else: **LATE CHAPTER! Yupp, it can drag on for a week, or maybe even two.**

Yes, I'm evil. But I'm the one with the story. ENJOY!

**

* * *

**

**Chapter Two**

"**Histories"**

**It is inevitable, to know the future, we must see the past. To see the threat of the man, the dangers he might throw upon the world, we must encounter the boy. **

**Facts**

**Lincoln Crest is born in the year 1960 to Mary and Carter Crest in Yorkshire, England.**

**Crestblade is founded in London by Lincoln Crest in the year 1981. It was a publishing house that closed down in 1991, but was resurrected in 1998 as a facility. **

**Alice Adams is abandoned by her mother near St. James orphanage near Riverside, Iowa at the age of six. Year 1993. **

**Claude Rains is shot by partner Noah Bennet in the year 1999 for hiding a metahuman. Said metahuman was Lincoln Crest. **

**Lincoln Crest adopts Alice Adams in the year 1999. **

**Miss Adams finds a special girl in Malaysia in 2002. Due to Nadiana's resurrecting abilities, she is put into solitary in the Crestblade Headquarters**

**Elle Bishop is let go by the Company in 2007 and is hired immediately by Crestblade. **

**Daphne Millbrook is found wandering the streets of Berlin in 2008 and is immediately hired by Crestblade.**

**Peter Petrelli dies on September 21****st**** in the year of 2008. **

**Matt Parkman is resurrected in the late 2010. **

**Elle Bishop, Daphne Millbrook and Matt Parkman become the first three-man team in Crestblade. **

**Daphne Millbrook and Matt Parkman are married in 2011. **

**Peter Petrelli is resurrected on September of 2011 and is given the alias Peter Michaelson. He joins the team with Bishop, Millbrook and Parkman. **

**Lincoln Crest dies in early 2012. **

**Claude Rains is appointed the new leader of Crestblade. **

* * *

He was all alone, in the white dreamless world. Nothing made any sense, no sight, no sound, no nothing that engulfed him. He was filled with nothingness, a burst of light inside of him, but he felt serene. He felt at peace, he felt as if a huge weight had been lifted off his shoulders, and he could finally live.

Who was he? It took him a few moments to recollect everything that he had been deliberating in his mind. He was Peter Petrelli, that was who he was, he was the son of Daniel Linderman and Natasha Christensen, brother to Gabriel Gray, fiancé to Claire Bennet, those were all facts now. He tried to remember something that couldn't be on a dossier, and came up with facts like he tried to fly once, then his brother saved him, he saved the cheerleader, he was dead.

Yes, he died, didn't he? In battlefield, a simple way to die for a complicated life, a reward for his being. It made sense now, why it was like this, why he was dressed in white like an angel, why everything around him was white nothingness, why he couldn't see the people he loved because he had already said his goodbyes.

Made his promises and kept them for as long as he could, saved the world as much as he could, he finished the job and now he was going to march on. The question was, to where? He sat down, felt a hard surface instead of puffy clouds that are usually depicted in heaven, unless this wasn't heaven, it was judgment. Peter had always been the good little religious boy, going to mass and praying whenever he could, and he knew this wasn't right. All alone like this, it didn't feel right.

"Hello, there," someone said. Peter looked up from the ground and saw someone with distorted features, blurry at first then it concentrated into one, peaceful-looking face. He was an old man, wrinkling, someone who could've been a veteran in his former life, he seemed familiar. "Do you remember me?" he asked. Peter squinted and tried to remember and he did.

"Mr. Carver?" The old man nodded at him and sat down next to him on the hard surface. He, too, was dressed in white and seemed ready to step into heaven, he seemed ready and fine with his death.

"You're dead," Peter noted. "I'm dead," Mr. Carver nodded.

"Why are you still here? Why am I still here?" the empath asked impatiently.

"It's best not to ask questions here, son, but I think you're here because of your choice, maybe there's something God still needs you to do," Mr. Carver patted Peter comfortingly on his shoulder.

Peter sighed and said, "God needs to make the job clear, because everything seems blurry. And I wouldn't have stayed if it was my choice. I either want to go back or go forward."

"What is good about turning back, son? We have settled for death, and it's where we shall stay. Turning back will break your heart," Mr. Carver said insightfully.

"I just want to see them one last time," the empath said. Flashes of his former life came in front of his eyes, bits and pieces of what made him so happy, the people who made his life. The Petrellis, Nathan, Sylar, Hannah, Claire. Oh, Claire. "No offence, Mr. Carver, but what are you doing here? I mean, here in this empty space, with me, I don't think it's where you belong," Peter asked the old man.

"I'm dead, son, that's why I'm here. Why I'm here with you, well, I think it's because the people who mean the less in your life will mean the most in death," he answered. "My Rose is in heaven now. I think that's where I belong, with her."

"So you have family," Peter noted. "Two kids. Ingrid and Joshua, they're big kids now, I doubt they need me," Mr. Carver said, looking into space.

A bell rang, something like a gong reverberating around them, a ringing sound that would stay in his head forever. Mr. Carver stood up, as if the bell was his calling, was his pathway to his Rose, but where would Peter go? "I think that's my cue," the old man said to Peter, who stood up with him.

A second bell rang and something inside Peter triggered, burned to his very core and he felt his being float away. "I think that's mine," the empath said. While John Carver turned to the right, Peter was turning to the left.

There was no telling what would happen after this, there was no telling what he would be, who he would forget, where he would go. Was he a saint or a sinner? Was he a hero or a villain? Was he Peter Petrelli, flying boy, empathic boy, or something else entirely? "Goodbye, Peter," Mr. Carver said to him, turning to him.

"Goodbye, Mr. Carver," Peter said. The two embraced in the whiteness around them and the older man pressed a kiss on Peter's forehead.

"I shall send my prayers," he said.

"And so will I," Peter said.

"Finish God's job for you, Peter. It will pay in the end. Remember you have a quest, and you have to go the depths of the worlds to finish it. Promise me you'll do me proud," Mr. Carver said. The way he said it, it was as if he could've been Peter's father instead of a glorified stranger.

"I promise," Peter bowed. "My guardian angel." Then both of them were simultaneously engulfed in light, not knowing what would happen next.

* * *

Year 1990, Crestblade Publishing

This wasn't normal, this wasn't supposed to be real, it was supposed to be a dream and he would wake up soon. His head was about to explode, and, very, very soon he would go down the drain with these thoughts that weren't even his to begin with.

Lincoln Crest had a somewhat stressful job, what with covering orders and making sure everything got done the way people wanted them done, it was easy to fall asleep in the office sometimes. But stressful as it may, it wouldn't have enabled him to pore someone else's thoughts and minds. He walked through his office with a coffee mug in his hands trying to make sense of everything. The man was in his early thirties, and still handsome without age consuming his face, but, with his ruffled hair and wrinkles strained with worry, he could've passed for forty.

"Morning," someone greeted him cheerfully. "Morning," he said without turning around, or looking up.

Lincoln turned to his desk and sat down, hiding his face behind his hands. "What's wrong with you?" his friend asked.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you, Claude," Lincoln said. "Try me," Claude said, leaning against Lincoln's desk, crossing his arms peacefully.

"I can hear people's thoughts," Lincoln confessed.

It was true, for instance, his employee, a stud named Lee, who was married and seemingly happy in that position, was having an affair behind closed doors and under his wife's nose. Lincoln now could no longer look at Lee's wife without a slight glint of sympathy. He never wanted this, never asked for it; it only brought trouble to his midst.

"Can you?" Claude asked jokingly. "Try. What am I thinking now?" So Lincoln tried to convince his friend for his telepathic ability, and pored inside Claude's head.

"Who's Lucy?" Lincoln asked innocently. "Love of my life, friend. And that's actually good for a newbie. Most of 'em just pick random thoughts out of random people, not out of will," Claude said, drinking his drink. "

What do you mean?" Lincoln asked.

"I know about people like you, special people, mostly 'cause I'm one o' them meself," Claude said absent-mindedly, as if that slight statement didn't cause his good friend to look at him agape. "Now, this is all in the hush hush, so have you told anyone abou' it?"

"No, just you," Lincoln confessed. "Good boy, because there might be people after what you have, and they'll go to desperate measures to get to ya," his friend said, now his face etched with seriousness and concern.

"So what should I do?" Lincoln asked.

"My advice is to shut down the business, and go live under a rock," Claude said.

"Are you serious? This is my livelihood, Claude. I can't just leave it behind," the young Crest said, looking around his office. "It's not much of a livelihood, now, is it? You can always get another job 'round here, your life's not over. What are so great about books, anyway?" Claude asked.

"Books are man's gateway to knowledge, Claude," Lincoln said condescendingly. "And you're serious about this? People could be after me?"

"Yeah," Claude nodded. "Now, don't worry. I'll probably give this business about six months, after that you'll go with me, and I'll protect ya. The Company's not getting a hold o' you, alright, Crest?"

* * *

Year 1995, Riverside, Iowa

The place she was staying in, a homely orphanage, the same one her mother abandoned her at, on the porch of the place, was located in Riverside, Iowa, and the place had been proclaimed future birth place of Captain Kirk of Star Trek fame. and that meant that the eight year old would have to endure annual Trek fests for as long as she was here, and she thought that was a long time.

Alice Adams was almost leaving, putting on her jacket and her caretaker saying 'hurry' to her every five seconds. The girl was a cute one, brunette hair that had been braided at the sides by her friend, Jacey, but it seemed no one wanted her. The fact that her mother had abandoned her was enough.

"Alice!" someone called her. It was one of the elder kids, a teenager who called herself Jet. "Someone's on the phone for you. Says she's your mother."

Alice instantly took the phone from Jet's hands and then asked into the receiver, hopeful and optimistic, "Mom, is that you?"

"Yes, my darling, it's me," she got as a response. "How are you doing?"

"I want you to come back, Mommy. Come back for me, please?" Alice pleaded.

"I'm sorry, dear; you know I can't do that. I know I never told you why I left you, but just know that I had to," Mom said.

"Then why are you calling?" Alice crossed her arms.

"I'm here to tell you the truth, Alice," her mother breathed heavily. "Your father never died, Alice, he's still alive. And from what I hear, you have siblings, too."

"My father's still alive?" Alice asked, incredulous. "I'll call back for his number and details, but I just want you to know his name and that he's your father, okay?" her mother said, seriously.

"Okay," Alice nodded.

"Now, your father," her mother started. "Was Daniel Linderman."

* * *

Year 2002

"How are you, Nadiana?" Lincoln asked her, with the presence of his adopted daughter leaning against the doorway, her arms crossed. "

Thankful, sir," the teenager said.

They picked her up in Malaysia, and the tracker tabbed her as a resurrector, the first recorded. She was a special girl, and she was barely even twelve. She wore a headscarf around her head like a good little Muslim girl and her skin was dark, her eyes innocent. Alice found her fascinating, that this girl, able to bring people from the dead, still believed in such a thing as God. She thought this was all God's gift to her, and she was to do good with such a talent.

"Thankful, why is that?" Lincoln sat back in his seat.

"My family has shunned me, sir, and I have nowhere else to go, I'm thankful that someone has come to my savior," Nadiana said.

"Now, why would your family shun you?" Lincoln asked.

"I have done something that frightened them, sir, they're scared of me. See, my sister, Liana, died two years ago in an accident, and I went to her grave. I brought her back. My parents saw this and saw it as something bad," Nadiana explained.

"Well, Nadiana, you're welcome here. We have a room and everything," Alice said with a smile on her face.

"Thank you," Nadiana nodded her head. "I should go pray now, it's time for Maghrib has come. May peace be with you, Mr. Crest."

"The courtesy is returned, Nadiana," Lincoln nodded. As soon as the girl was out of the room, Alice sat down opposite her foster father and asked, "What will we do with her?"

"We'll take care of her, protect her because I sense some people might be interested in her," Lincoln said. Alice nodded understandably. "You should go, finish that book you've been reading and come have dinner with me later," Lincoln said, then pressed a kiss on the top of his daughter's head. "Will do," Alice smiled.

* * *

Year 2011

A living body was on the metal table, resisting every touch, aching away any form of contact. He looked scared, frightened.

"Caucasian male, about 5' 7, dark hair, dark eyes," someone pointed out his characteristics. "Name?"

"Peter," a young woman answered, her voice was strict, rock steady as if under hypnosis. "Peter what, Miss Adams?" the first voice asked. The woman looked to the man and then to the first voice, and said, "Peter Michaelson."

"Anything else?" the first voice asked. "Assign him to solitary. Anything else can wait until tomorrow, Brian," the woman said. The young woman then looked away from Peter Michaelson, and looked at the clock on the wall. It was 4. Then it stopped.

* * *

Her eyes were groggy, her head was hurting, everything around her seemed blurry and it didn't make any sense, like the yellow brick road unfolding in front of her eyes. Through closer inspection, the walls were merely yellow, and only a section of it, at that. This wasn't her room, her room was blue, homely and she remembered painting it when she was 16 with Lincoln.

Alice's arms were folded, and it worked as a makeshift pillow. She was at the side of somebody's bed, and it was awfully uncomfortable to be sleeping in this position. She looked up and saw a man's body on the bed. His eyelids were closed, but he seemed familiar, he seemed like someone she knew, someone she loved. "Peter," Alice muttered.

"Yes, it's Peter," someone said, shocking her. Alice looked up and saw her guardian, his eyes on fire; he was disappointed, angry. "How could you, Alice?"

"Lincoln, I didn't know, I didn't do anything!" Alice said.

"Where were you this morning?" Lincoln asked accusingly.

"I…don't remember," Alice confessed.

It was true; she didn't remember where she was this morning, because it looked about afternoon from the windows, and she and Lincoln were supposed to have a special daddy-daughter breakfast today. "How could you, Alice? You know not to put Nadiana in danger!" he crossed his arms.

"I didn't do anything, Lincoln, you've got to believe me," Alice looked him straight in the eye.

"Fine, if you didn't do anything, put him down, Alice," Lincoln said as if it didn't hurt her, as if she was just going to do it without remorse or turning back.

"I can't put him down, Peter's my-" Alice said, but Lincoln cut her off. "I know full well what he means to you, but owe his interests over your own, he's been through enough pain," he said, gripping on her arms. "We've talking about this. There are alternatives. New York City, for one, and looking for your mother. We can always do that, if that's what you want."

"Peter…" Alice breathed in. "I never thought you were for this, Lincoln. Putting people down, what about Parkman?"

"He was a first test, Peter's different, Alice, and you know that. You might love him, but think of his interests."

"No, I won't do it."

"Alice…"

"No, I want him to stay; I'll take care of him."

"Fine," Lincoln gave in. "He'll stay, but I won't guarantee it'll be forever."

"Thank you," Alice nodded respectfully. Lincoln looked at her adopted daughter, then to the man, wrapped up in a sleepy cocoon, and said, "He deserves this much."

* * *

Two months later, he was out of solitary, out of that fricking cage of confinement and making trial runs out of everything he's learned. Because he tabbed ready for the world, and he was, he was done making test drives, he wanted to try the real thing because he saw the guys who got the job, what they did, what with bringing new people in everyday and going out into the world.

Peter didn't even know what the world looked like, except for musings outside the window. He didn't think he even smelled fresh air instead of depressed clinical chemicals wafting around his self and the smell of dusty books in the library, one of the few places he was allowed to visit. So here he was, getting out and he was greeted by an elderly man, not the one at the port, the one at the port was stuffy and had a messy beard.

This one was clean cut, wearing a white t-shirt under a suit-esque jacket. He smiled at Peter and it seemed out of obligation to blink a million times faster than any human being and not make the first move. "Hello, there, Peter," the man held out his hand. "My name's Lincoln."

"That doesn't really classify who you are," Peter sneered.

"I keep things running here at Crestblade," Lincoln said formally. "I take it you've been taken care of here."

"Yeah," Peter said, remembering the confinement given to him, like a trapped animal. "I'm just swell."

"You've been reading a lot, the guards tell me," Lincoln said, starting to walk and indicating that Peter should follow him.

"There's nothing else to do, besides the usual. You know, watching TV, cutting myself and making things move," Peter breathed in heavily. "Keeps me sane, reading about people's other problems instead on focusing on my own."

"I know the feeling," Lincoln said, looking bemused. "See, I'm like you, I have an ability. I'm telepathic, I can read people's thoughts, push a thought into anyone's head."

"That sounds neat," Peter said, seriously curious and impressed at the man's tricks. "I could show you how to control it," the man said, making a left turn. "It's your trick, not mine," Peter looked up.

"Ah-ha, there's where you're wrong, son. You can have all the tricks that you want, as long as you know how to control it. I can teach you how to control my telepathic ability once Claude teaches you how to control your base," Lincoln said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. But this was all new for Peter, having someone else like him, and someone who was willing to teach him, and show him the ropes to this thing.

"I have question, though," Peter said. "What is it that you do here? I've seen the inside of solitary, do you kidnap people, lock them in, throw away the key?"

"Far from it," the English man said. "We give them lives."

"Whether they want it or not," Peter said.

"It's in their best interest, you need to remember that. They're free to leave after six months, just as you are, and luckily there are people to clean up their mess. But most choose to say," Lincoln stopped his walking and looked at Peter seriously.

"Oh yeah? Why's that?" Peter asked.

"Various reasons, but most cases involve loss. Loss of people they love. But here, we help them control their gifts, it's rehabilitation for most," Lincoln said with an air of formality mixed with seriousness as if the world was coming to an end.

"So what is Crestblade supposed to mean to me?" Peter asked. Lincoln smiled at him and responded, "Home."

He started walking again, this time with an actual destination. They said nothing more, until they entered a big space, a room with nothing that resembled anything that could fit in a room. In the room were people.

One was a young woman, blonde with blue eyes, a couple consisting of a heavy set dark-haired man and a woman a few years his junior, then there were the people from the port: the dark-haired young woman, and the stuffy English man. Man, there were a lot of English men walking around here, Peter thought.

"Now, Peter, meet your team," Lincoln said. "Five people? I have six people in a team? How do you organize this place?" Peter asked.

"No, three," Lincoln said. "Alice is going to be looking out for you, sort of like a caretaker, and Claude will be the one helping you with your abilities."

"Hiya," Peter smiled. "This is Elle," the blonde young woman, "Daphne," the blonde with the bob, "And Matt." "Matt Parkman, please to meet you," Matt said. "Likewise," Peter shook his hand. Well, Peter thought, this was going to be interesting.

* * *

Practice sucked, especially when Claude was bossing him around over things he already learned. How to aim for once. Sure, he wasn't the best aimer, but he knew how things worked. He might be amnesiac, but he wasn't dumb, wasn't a fool, watched enough TV to know how things worked.

"Whoa, there!" Matt said, holding up his hands. "Stop shooting!"

"What are you doing here?" Peter asked, putting down his hands, so that his TK would stop shooting harmless food in Matt's way.

It had been a month of being a team, a handful of assignments and he and Matt were getting close, friends to say the least, he was the only one that could understand what he was going through. Amnesia, the whole shindig, Peter wasn't the only one. While Claude was teaching Peter the base, Lincoln was teaching Matt the way of the telepath.

"Food," Matt merely answered. "Say that again, only slower and assenting the awesomeness of it," Peter chuckled.

"See you in the caf. Elle and Daph already there," Matt smiled and walked out the room that still occupied Peter and Claude. "You coming?" Peter asked his mentor. "Yeah, yeah, go ahead now," Claude shooed him away.

So he did, and went to the cafeteria, and, granted, there was his team, plus Alice on the side. Peter had to admit, Lincoln made a few mistakes, but putting him up with this team was a good idea.

"Sit," Daphne welcomed him once she saw him coming into the cafeteria. "Yes, Mom," Peter said jokingly.

"You need to stop calling me that," Daphne said as Peter sat down in between Alice and Elle. "Just because Matt and I are married and don't have any kids yet, doesn't mean that…oh, forget it. You are my test run, Peter."

"I'm flattered, Daph, and a little insulted," Peter chuckled.

Conversations died down, people began fluttering away and soon the only people in the room were Peter and Elle, left to clear the plates with burden. Elle was a beautiful girl, that was evident, and after all his maneuvers with outside women, he would've thought he could make a move towards her already. But he felt like a cheesy teenage boy in a Lifetime movie, and maybe since he had no idea how adolescence felt like, this was his chance.

But he was still Peter, adolescent or not, Daphne and Matt's test run or not and he should still do something about this Elle situation. "Hey," Peter started. "You know I've got some to confess."

"Oh yeah? What is it?" Elle asked, sitting back down on her chair. "I slept with Kevin last week," Peter confessed with a heavy breath.

"Oh my God, are you serious? Kevin, the guy from the second floor, Kevin as in a man Kevin?" Elle asked, incredulous. "Are you gay? Is that what it's about? Is it why you smelled like a Neutrogena ad for two days?"

"I think I'm bi, there's a difference, and I only smelled like that against my will," Peter said.

"Why do you do this, Pete?" Elle asked. "No idea," Peter said, looking down. "I just feel like there's this space, y'know? There's a space and, I don't know, I figure that if I do this, just part of that will just go away."

"I had no idea you were cheesy, Peter Michaelson," Elle propped her elbows up, as Peter chuckled. "Yeah, me too," he said.

He looked up and she was looking at him square in the eyes, and he felt the heat pulsate between them. She lifted his chin and kissed him. Right there and then, she kissed him, and he felt himself pulling towards her.

"Wait," Elle said, then stood up anxiously. "What does this mean?" "It doesn't have to mean anything," Peter shrugged. "A one-time deal?"

"No, I don't want that," Elle said.

"I don't want more either," Peter stood up and looked at her at eyelevel.

"What about, we're in an open relationship. We can see other people, but still see each other," Elle reached a conclusion. "How very modern of you, 'Ace'," Peter joked.

"But we agree?" Elle asked. "We agree," Peter nodded. "Good," Elle said. "Now, kiss me."

"Gladly," Peter smiled and crushed his lips against hers in one desperate measure. She moaned under his lips and he smiled at her. Playfully, he picked her up and walked like that, with Elle in his arms and kissing her frantically, towards the door. "We can't walk like this until your room," Elle laughed. Peter kissed her again and smiled, "Try me."

* * *

"Are you okay, Peter? You look pale," the Hispanic woman in the library asked him.

Peter looked up from the book he was reading, and saw Elsa Vasquez, a woman who had lost everything and now lived in between books in the library. It was like a variation of the crazy cat lady, only Elsa looked much younger and lived with books instead of animals that would purr and pee and purr while they pee.

"I'm fine, senora, a restless night but fine," Peter assured her.

Elsa was one of the few people Peter felt an obligation to be nice to, the first one obviously belonged Lincoln, with his high standard for him like an overbearing father for a son. Maybe Peter only felt pity, because she had a son once, and she told him that he would've been Peter's age if he had lived and she saw in him a substitute for her son.

In Crestblade, there were four people Peter considered that were like parents to him. Elsa, for her maternal caretaking, Lincoln, for his pride and concern, Daphne, who wanted to strike in her mothering skills early on, and Matt, who, even if he was his best friend, was the guy who would play with him and listen to his numerous antics.

"Anything you'd like to share?" Elsa asked, putting away books.

"Nothing much, the dreams are just screams and blurs, but I do pick up some stuff every once in a while," Peter said.

"Such as?" Elsa asked.

"A blonde girl, and whenever I see her, there's like red and white always around her. I can't see her face properly. Then a dark-haired man, then two kids," Peter said. "Kids?" Elsa asked. "Yeah, but I don't see them clearly either," Peter explained.

Elsa then began to shuffle out anxiously and putting on her jacket rather quickly. "What's up?" Peter asked her curiously. "I just remembered that I have to meet Lincoln now, about something," Elsa said, and kissed the top of his head and started muttering things in Spanish. She walked out the door.

A few moments later, Elsa Vasquez stepped inside Lincoln Crest's office, enraged. "Kids, Lincoln!" she said. "He has kids somewhere. What else are you not telling me?"

"Elsa, slow down," Lincoln said.

"Peter, he told me he's been having dreams, only they're not dreams, they're flashbacks of his past. You're doing that, I presume," Elsa crossed her arms. "Yes," Lincoln sighed. "This wasn't my plan."

"Then?"

"Alice," Lincoln said. "Peter's her brother, Elsa, you knew that. She wanted him to stay, so I let him, for a while, but it's not going to stay like this forever."

"His real family?" Elsa asked.

"In New York, two brothers and a fiancé. He's also got two kids, almost two years old," Lincoln said. "Promise me you won't say anything, to Alice especially. I don't want to disappoint my daughter by taking away her brother."

"I won't," Elsa said. "But he needs to know sometime."

"I know."

* * *

Alice Adams loved her family, or what was left of it, that was. The remnants of her mother, who abandoned her on the footsteps of an Iowa orphanage and was heard of only once in a while, the father she never knew, Lincoln, who saved her from a life of grievance, and her two brothers, the brothers she never really knew.

But almost all of them were gone now, what with Lincoln's death and his funeral that was just held in front of her eyes. A suicide, something no one thought Lincoln Crest, the great man, could die by. Her face was still decorated with tears, an ornament of sadness. She walked the hallways of the Crestblade building, crossing her arms and seeing flashbacks reeling in her mind every time she stepped forward. Then she heard a crash, like glass breaking on the ground.

Alice followed the sound, and heard it came from a nearby room. She peeked through the door and saw that it was fully-lit, with a crouched figure on the corner. "Peter?" she asked. He looked up and, sure enough, there was Peter. Only he wasn't the rock-hard Peter he usually was, he had been crying. "What's wrong, Peter?" she asked, sitting down next to him.

"I'm just really sad. Lincoln was like a father to me, you know?" he said, and she smelled a tint of alcohol in his breath. She also saw an empty bottle in the other corner and the remnants of another one on the floor. "He loved me…right? He loved me?"

"Of course he loved you," Alice said, squeezing his arm comfortingly. "He thought the world of you."

"Now who's gonna take care of me, now he's gone?" Peter asked. "I can't believe he killed himself."

"Yeah, me, too," Alice sighed. "But, don't worry, Pete, we're gonna take care of you."

"You know, Lincoln once told me you were like a sister to me, and if that were true, it wouldn't be too far from the truth, now, would it?" Peter said. "No, not at all," she chuckled. She wanted to tell him that she was his sister, and they spent four good years together as just that, with veiled truths, but her words were caught in her throat.

_

* * *

_

A/N: The full history of Peter and Alice is in a special chapter of Snapshots, coming on later this week. Remember my words, readers!

-Aly


	3. Reconciliation

****

A/N: Hmm.. 5 reviews for the second chapter, I'm very satisfied. So here it is: the third chapter in which Claire, Sylar and Peter reunite...with twists and turns.

Enjoy then review! *or else!!*

* * *

Chapter Three

**"Reconciliation"**

**To people of our past, we must encounter to reconcile, to love again, to sprout of feelings that have once again been buried by time. Had it been you, stepping onto my door, I would have done the same. I would have welcomed you graciously with open arms, and tell you I had never stopped love. **

Keys jingled awkwardly in her hands. She fumbled and nerves were shaking her cold to the core. Claire Petrelli thought she had grown a tough skin ever since the great love of her life died, strong walls built out around her so she was protected from any fall from grace but it seemed all that protection, all that security, came tumbling down once she saw that it was Peter who saved her from the crash.

He came back, for reasons unknown but he was back, he was leaning unconsciously in her arms. The foundation of what she and Sylar had built together was here, the man who she loved greater than life itself, the father of her children. Finally, Claire pulled through and was welcomed into the warm glow of her home.

She carefully positioned Peter on the couch and just watched him. the steady movements of his chest, rising and falling in the serenity of sleep, the dark hair she longed to run her fingers through, like old times, and the eyelids that covered his milky chocolate eyes, like a strip of leather running over gentle marble balls.

Claire missed him, his smile, and his unconditional love for her, for everyone, despite the fact that she was with Sylar now, that she loved Sylar now, she still loved Peter. Not as much as she used to, but no one could deny that a space of Claire's heart would always be reserved for Peter Petrelli. Maybe she was too quick to believe this, that it was only fate that brought them together in the same scenario that happened almost seven years prior, Claire being the victim, Peter being the hero, and a crash being the villain.

Maybe this wasn't Peter. Claire's faced sunk as she thought about it. In a world like theirs, with endless shape shifters, conmen and powerful, mind-bending telepaths, it was easy to fall for a trick. But something inside of Claire had snapped when she saw him, it was similar to the feeling at Homecoming, a staring glance, a passing stare that made her stomach churn at the flashback.

Claire was almost sure that this was man, caught in sleep's stare, was the man she fell for, the man who saved her more times than she could count. This man was him, Peter Petrelli, her once everything, her still hero. The door opened swiftly and Claire quickly turned her head in a reflex. "Sylar," she said.

The man was frozen in his position, as Claire shifted slightly so that he could get a better view of the man on the couch. Sylar's bag fell to floor with a _thunk_ and his face shouted with surprise. The young mother couldn't quite describe how her boyfriend's face changed, it didn't drop, or fall, it consequently became surprised and shocked, just like hers did.

Sylar crouched down next to her, his hand over his mouth. He didn't talk, and it scared her to the core. Sure, she wasn't the talkative when she saw it was Peter, but she did something, she asked Greg to help him up to a taxi, held his hand during the cab drive home, and held him all the way up to the apartment. She didn't just sit there and do nothing; this was Peter. But then she realized, what Peter was to her, it wasn't what he was to Sylar.

To Claire, he was the love of her life; the man who knew her better than anyone else, to Sylar, Peter was only a long-lost flesh and blood, a man he never got to know, and the life that he began to lead after September 21st 2008. Claire should give him time, for his sake, this would not be easy for him, this was Sylar anyway, he still had an inch of Gabriel inside of him, and Claire easily wanted that part to stay, be alive.

She wanted to comfort him, hug him, put her arms around his shoulders, kiss him, anything, but it was like it was a gravitational pull away from him. Then she realized why she couldn't just place her lips on his, like other times, it was because other times didn't include an unconscious Peter Petrelli in them.

* * *

Everything fell around him in a blur; dozens of incoherent shapes surrounding his sleeping body and strips of light that blinded him to no end. He groaned as he woke up, realizing he had a killer headache, he felt like his head was about to split open from the intensity. He hated waking up like this, with sun in his face immensely and him having to recollect everything that happened.

He didn't even drink; he usually drank to make him feel like this. Peter sat upright, and put his palms to his eyes, trying to think. The headache was disabling that, it was all blurry in his eyes. Car, he remembered. There was a car involved, in a street, near a bistro. Cheerleader…Peter thought. Yes, the dark-haired young woman across the street, the one he saved, the one with emerald green eyes that seeped through him before he passed out from the impact of the car crashing to his body.

Peter realized he hadn't fainted in a long time, he was a healer, anyway, anything they threw at him he just bounced right back. Peter shrugged it away as nothing. Peter breathed heavily as he got up steadily. This wasn't his room, he realized, this wasn't Crestblade, this was a warmly-lit apartment and sounds outside signaled it was somewhere in the city. He remembered the files; the brown documents Brian gave him, still tucked in his bag, which the people who saved him put on the floor next to the couch that had been his knock-out heaven for God knew how long.

Peter took them out, and saw the woman's picture on the front page. It wasn't Cheerleader, no; it was a brown-haired woman with a label next to her headshot: Sarah Walker. It said that she was married to James Walker, who she had a daughter with, Molly, and they lived here, and, supposedly, they owned the Hunter Bistro.

Peter was beginning to think that it wasn't true, all of it was a lie, owned up by the people from Crestblade. Yet again, he fell into their web. Peter, instead of confronting it head-on, decided to pace around the perimeter and inspected it closely.

The walls were washed with white, but light filtered through and it gave the home a slight glow. Pictures, memories, all sliced into numerous pieces, enough to go around, on the tables, on the counters, everywhere; it was almost nauseating to look at. But it wasn't as worse as Matt and Daphne, who had their share of stuff around their area, some of them occupying him, as well, reluctantly smiling as the camera flashed in front of his eyes. Peter walked, going picture after picture, and he stopped, suddenly.

A blonde girl, and a dark-haired man, they were smiling at each other out of love and adoration, held in each other's arms, basking the glow of love. It seemed corny, yet nice. But one thing passed his judgment and slipped away, but he grasped it at the last minute. The man looked like…holy shit. Like him, the man looked like him, down to last mark, everything but the scar that slashed his face. Peter couldn't make out his emotion just then, but the most prominent one had to be confusion. It was etched on his face, and his brain, wrought with question that threatened to come out.

"That was a great day," someone said.

Peter turned and saw her, the dark-haired cheerleader he saved, the one in the picture, with his apparent doppelganger. He could see it in her face, her expression, wired with hope and fullness, that she had expected him to say, "Yes, it was."

But how could he when he didn't remember that day, that he wasn't who she thought he was, didn't know what she thought she was to him, he didn't even know her goddamned name, because he couldn't very well call her Cheerleader. Peter stayed quiet, stayed silent and awkward as he felt her gaze travel around him.

"I'm really glad you came back," she said, stepping forward.

"I'm sorry, but I'm not who you think I am. Whoever it is, it's not me, I'm not him," Peter said apologetically to her.

"You are, you're Peter," she inched more closely. She was the epitome of optimism, thinking he was who she thought he was, and he was the sad figure who would break that endless hope. What were the odds that his name was Peter, too?

"That I am, but not your Peter," Peter said.

"You are, you're Peter Petrelli, come on, you know me. You're the man who saved me, who got down on one knee and…" her voice faded out in misery. He didn't even need to tell her, she figured it out on her own. "You don't know me."

"No, not at all," he shrugged; it was a measly apology for the woman whose face just fell down in 2 seconds flat.

She dropped to the couch, holding her head in her hands, looking disappointed. He should be apologizing, should be shaking and shivering as much as she was, but how could he forgive who he was, and the fact that he wasn't hers? It was inevitable; he did look a lot like this man, this Peter Petrelli, the happy man in the picture, but he was nothing like him. For one, Peter had to make an effort to seem happy without sarcasm.

Someone entered the room, in the form of a tall man, in casual work clothes, dark hair, much like Peter's own. As Peter inspected the man some more, it seemed that even his eyes were like his own, dark with a certain glow about them, brown and warm, with his built and strong-featured face, he could be his brother. Close, maybe he was his doppelganger's brother. This man didn't process the situation like the woman did; he just straight away hugged him.

"I'm not," Peter began but his very embrace caught his words in his throat. He felt like it was a piece of a former life. When he pulled away, the man looked Peter square in the eyes and said, "I…we missed you."

"Sylar, stop. He's not Peter," Cheerleader said, putting a hand on Sylar's shoulder. Sylar looked the woman, then turned back to Peter, instantly pulling his hands off Peter.

"If you're not Peter, then who the hell are you?" Sylar asked, like Peter had intruded his life in the worse way possible. In some ways, he did.

"Peter Michaelson. I'm with a facility called Crestblade," Peter answered, with a veiled formality. "Now that you know who I really am, I'd like to know who you think I am."

"Peter Petrelli," Cheerleader answered, looking down solemnly. Peter felt a pang of sympathy for her. For a moment, he wished he was Peter Petrelli, and the glow would come back to her face.

* * *

"Where are you?" Daphne asked into the phone.

She was in her room, sitting on her bed, when Peter called. When he told her where she was, she instantly sat upright, she knew what New York meant; it wasn't a coincidence. The pregnant woman looked shocked and surprised for Peter's whereabouts.

"New York," Peter repeated. "Don't have an aneurism, now. It was just an assignment, then…" "Then?" Daphne asked.

"Then it went wrong. Went totally downhill, got into a car crash and met this girl, who said she knew me," Peter said. "Turns out I just look amazingly like the guy."

Daphne felt guilt pool in her stomach, knowing full well that this girl was Claire Petrelli, and it wasn't just a coincidence that Peter looked like their guy, because he was their guy. The door opened suddenly, revealing Elle, standing tall and smiling with popcorn in her hands. "Who that?" she asked.

"Peter," the speedster answered, putting a hand over the receiver. "He's in New York." Daphne didn't need to tell the electro-girl twice, because she knew the significance, and instantly grabbed the phone from the speedster.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk, Pete, what have you dropped into?" Elle asked playfully to her lover.

"No damn idea, Ellie," Peter answered with a sigh.

She could picture him, a tense nod, and a shift going through his body, trying to make sense of the situation. His hair would be ruffled, as it always was, he wanted to keep it messy for her, the one of many subtle public displays of affection he did for her. Elle sat down on the chair near the vanity table Daphne set up a few months before she got married to Matt and rubbed her eyes anxiously.

"They're asking me to stay," Peter said. "And I think I should."

"Then we're coming over," Elle responded, instead of opening up another line of curse words to use. "What?" he asked.

"You heard the woman," Daphne chirped in. "We're a team, and we're not leaving you there with a couple of strangers." "We'll be there as fast as we can," Elle nodded and hung up.

With that, she looked at the pregnant lady standing before her, with a somewhat anxious face painted on her, and said, "He found Sylar. Shit…just, shit!" "No cussing in front of baby," Daphne said, petting maternally on her growing stomach.

"Baby can't hear me," Elle said mockingly. "Plus this is a huge problem. They've been asking us to keep Pete's past a secret for ten freaking months and here they are, blowing it out in the open? Unbelievable bastards."

"Do you think we should tell them? Once we get there, Claire and Sylar might get curious, and Pete, he likes opening every Pandora's Box available in his life," Daphne inquired.

She sat back on the bed, and held her head in her hands. She twitched, and flinched, she had a habit of doing that when she was faced with a grave, serious situation such as telling one of her best friends and her husband about everything they've been keeping from them. "I think we should," Elle said sympathetically. "It's time they knew. And let's not clear this with Alice; she'll flip out about it."

"Yeah," her companion said, nodding. "Another thing to worry about it Sylar."

"Sylar's not a problem for me. Maybe for you, looking through frosted windows, hoping he'd look back, and not even having the guts to invite him to your wedding, but not for me," Elle said nonchalantly, keeping her cool and calm look about her.

"Stop kidding yourself," the speedster said, and started getting up to walk out the door. "Just get ready."

* * *

It was weird, to be fit inside a puzzle where he didn't know how exactly he melded into the picture. It was awkward, to be fitted in between two people he knew nothing about, and being pulled down by gravity to stay.

It was like one of his many obligations, the involvements he allowed himself to take, like being the good surrogate son to Elsa, making sure she was always safe and tucked behind books, like being the good boy for Lincoln before he died, and keeping his behavior straight for Matt and Daphne, or, at least, concealing anything they wouldn't like, or flinch at, behind their backs. Peter grew to be a master at stealth.

He learned how to pick a lock with his TK, he learned to fly only slightly off the ground so that no sounds could be made, it all seemed like a game to him. staying with Claire and Sylar, taking up their offers for drinks, seeing the light illuminating from the outside city, and tracing patterns when things got a little too boring for his taste, it seemed like a necessary attachment.

But a one-time deal, because, since he wasn't theirs to claim, and they weren't his to look after, and after today, he would go back to normalcy, or, at least, what he considered normalcy. Maybe he would spend a good few hours with a showgirl, maybe he would drink some booze when he got back, maybe he would be anywhere but here, and he was grateful for that, of all things.

It seemed that Sylar was trying to make an effort towards him, asking him question, this and that, inquiries about his life then mused about how different the two Peters were. Claire, that was the cheerleader's name after all, on the other hand, just stood politely in the background, crossing her arms, narrowing her eyes directly as Peter, for he could always feel a gaze on him when he walked back and forth to kitchen. It was like she was inspecting him, and Sylar was doing the actual experimenting, the stand-by, just in case things got wayward.

Peter felt entirely demeaned by her, but it seemed she was easy to look at. Every time Sylar wasn't with him, asking him, pondering, pushing, he looked at her. The straight dark hair, usually pulled to the side, and her emerald green eyes that always looked away when he set his sights on her, and the sun-kissed skin that stretched over her body. He never thought teenage mothers were this beautiful, this well-kept, he lost hope of an attractive teenage mother after all those Lifetime movies with Daphne.

But Claire was different, and she carried herself with such grace that he wondered if she was an athlete, or something that would tone her muscles like it did, maybe he was right by his assumption, maybe she was a cheerleader. She didn't talk much, just so-and-so's that don't make a difference and he can't seem to pull through with her.

"My team should be arriving soon," Peter said, leaning against the couch, putting the glass of water-oh how he wished it was vodka-on his stomach. "Then I'll be out of your hair."

"We don't mind having you," Sylar smiled nicely at him.

Something told Peter that they were just delaying his return to Crestblade, so that they would see Peter Petrelli just one last time, even if he wasn't the delivery they wanted in the package. Peter stayed silent, knowing if he said okay or said it was fine, it would fall apartment anyway, unraveling them in a way he didn't want to see. Because, granted, they were nice people, and he didn't want to hurt them in the slightest, and that was probably why he wanted to leave so quickly, because he didn't want them to see who the real Peter was.

There was a knock on the door and Peter went up to answer it. Through the peephole, he could see the three people he desperately wanted to thank. "Delivery for Peter Michaelson!" chimed Elle's ever-perky voice.

Her kitten-like behavior snapped something in him and he could barely contain the smile he was wearing. Peter opened the door and, almost simultaneously, he was getting showered with kisses, all by Elle, one by Daphne on the top of his head. Through this, he felt a pat on his shoulder, and, from the tight grip, he recognized it was Matt. Peter pulled away, rather reluctantly for all of their arms and stood straight.

"Sylar, Claire, I'd like you to meet my team," he said. Sylar's eyes inspected all of theirs, on all counts, he was wearing a mask of shock. Then they stopped altogether when they set sights on Daphne. The tall man, dark-haired and strong, his entire face lifted in a way that Peter had only read about.

"Daph?" Sylar asked.

"Hi, Sy," Daphne smiled shyly.

Both of them ran towards each other and before Peter knew it, Sylar was littering Daphne with signs of affection, kisses on her cheek, her hair, and embracing her so tightly that Peter worried for the safety of the baby the young Millbrook was carrying. It actually seemed nice.

"Hey, hands off my wife!" Matt yelled protectively, claiming her and his and his only. Sylar smiled apologetically to him.

"Sylar, this is," Peter started but Sylar was already shaking Matt's hand.

"Matt Parkman, I know," Sylar nodded.

"I can't return the courtesy," Matt said.

"Name's Gabriel Gray, but call me Sylar," the tall man said.

"Ok, it's weird that you know them, but, nonetheless, this is," Peter said.

Elle walked on from the shadows, and smiled, hands in her pockets and, even at her presence, Claire stood with them, as if she knew her, but she didn't, didn't have one of the weird reunions, she just stood there next to Sylar. Her blonde hair bounced off her shoulders, revealing her neck and Sylar gulped as though she was a ghost, a ghost of his past. Maybe she was because Peter heard him mutter, more under his breath than out in the open, "Elle…"

* * *

"So let me get this straight," Peter dropped to the couch yet again. "All of you know each other?"

"One way or another," Sylar nodded. "Daphne and I were friends a few years ago, Matt knew Claire and me under rather…unfortunate circumstances. And Elle, well, it was complicated."

"Were you together?" Peter asked. "Sort of," Elle awkwardly cleared her throat, standing up.

Sylar wasn't sure what to make of the situation, that Peter Michaelson looked so much like the remnant of his past, that the girl he once thought he fell for was here, standing next to him, but, apparently, together with Peter, that Daphne was back. Out of all those things, he was grateful for that the most.

They kept smiling at each other, as if they knew something over all of them, even Claire noticed. The young mother just let him be, she knew how much he missed her, that even she couldn't compare to the speedster and just watched their knowing expressions. Not to mention, Daphne was pregnant, there was a certain glow about her from it, and the growing stomach was a sight he kept seeing, knowing that a baby was growing inside of her.

Despite having lived with a pregnant young woman all those nine months, taking care of Claire, knowing her every craving and kept the fridge stocked of them, he felt something trigger in the pit of his stomach. This was Daphne, and it was different.

"Whoa, so, first it's that I look amazingly like your Peter and then you seem to know my entire team?" Peter sighed.

"About that, Pete, you probably need to know now more than ever," Elle said, crouching down to him. "We've been keeping something from you," Daphne furthered the explanation then looked at her husband. "Both of you."

Sylar felt alienated and out of place, like this was supposed to be a discussion between the team of four, not intruded by Sylar and Claire, it was supposed to be an explanation in one of their rooms, instead of a stranger's apartment. But part of him was slightly curious because when Daphne said they were keeping something for them, she also looked at him, as if giving him a subtle sign that he should stay and listen. So he did.

"It isn't a coincidence that you look amazingly like their Peter, or the fact that Sylar knows Matt and Matt doesn't even know him, it's because both of you are who they think you are," Elle said.

"What do you mean?" Matt asked, confused.

"Let's just say if anyone wanted to exhume Peter Petrelli, or Matt Parkman, all they would find would be ancient dirt and soil, because the bodies, well, they're here," Elle explained.

Sylar's head spun with every kind of emotion, confusion, intrigue, curiosity, but what Sylar kept to himself, Peter and Matt blurted out in a chain of questions. It was like a domino track with them, one fell down and the whole track did, unraveling secrets among secrets. "That means that Peter is," Claire muttered.

"Your sort-of ex-fiancé, and, yes, Sylar's brother," Elle nodded.

"But why doesn't he know us?' Claire asked. "A slight case of amnesia and that can be said on Matt's part, too. See, resurrection comes with a lot of flinches; trust me, this is just one of them," Elle said.

"What are we supposed to tell the others? That both Peter and Matt are alive and came back as amnesiacs?" Claire shook her head worriedly.

"A variation of that is better," Sylar bit his lip, just enough to make it pink instead of making it bleed out anxiety. He then squeezed Claire's arm comfortingly; every sign of love was needed right now. There weren't many ways to comfort somebody when a ghost of their past just came back from the dead. "We'll figure this out."

* * *

A good hour of shifting bodies on couches, of refills of drinks that no one seemed to mind whether it was plain water or alcohol, Claire even managed to smuggle in juice without them noticing the difference. Everyone was too intent of going over things that should be top of the list. Like the fact that Peter died a hero, a gunshot penetrating his body, and that his mystery abilities of regeneration and telekinesis came from Claire and Sylar respectively.

By this, Claire could see that Peter saw Sylar in a totally different light, that he wasn't just a boring man of books and watches, he was one of them. Sylar could see it in his brother-he's still gripping on the idea of this man, who didn't know him, being his brother-that he needed a demonstration, just to be sure. So he just did it for kicks, he broke apart his now-working Sylar watch and pieced it together again with his telekinesis. Peter sat astounded, quite shocked that such a sheltered man could make such extraordinary things but was disappointed that both Sylar and Claire kept their powers under the radar.

Matt, on the other hand, was fed with information such as he died by Sylar's hand, that day at Kirby Plaza, where Peter went boom and almost blew up the city of New York. Matt flinched when he heard that he was killed by the man who was sitting ten inches away from him, somewhat shocked that someone like him was capable of such a crime, because he saw Sylar tucking in his kids when one of them woke up from a nightmare.

Matt was intent just listening to what they were explaining to him, that he once had a wife named Janice, who moved to Iceland with her son, a son that some speculated had been his to begin with. And the fact that he was a police detective and worked for a while as an FBI agent interested him and his ears perked up.

But what made him listen the most was the fact that a girl had been hoping, praying that he would come back, because he saved her life, and protected her in her time of need. Molly Walker, her name was, she was reaching fifteen now, and she had a power, like him. Sylar offered to show him pictures of Molly growing up, kept by Mohinder and given to Peter, later Sylar, to be considered a treasured memory.

While Daphne kept Matt occupied, Sylar and Claire told Peter the short version of Peter Petrelli's well-lived life, down to the very last message from a Japanese future dude. Through it, his other self seemed quite embarrassed he actually did such things. Claire and Sylar couldn't fathom the why of his off behavior but decided to blame it on the amnesia.

As much as Claire wanted to, she just couldn't see the glow in this Peter. His eyes seemed darker, instead of Peter's original brownish glow, the happiness he carried with him like an amulet, the empathy shone through him, but through this Peter. If anything, the closest she would get was apathy from him, he was uncaring, and not so much as sensitive to the issue that was being warped around them. But Peter did seem one thing: curious, so Sylar gave him a few tapes to watch on their TV.

The older twin had hoped that once Peter saw pictures, once he heard stories, once he saw his life unfurling in front of him on the screen of their television, Peter would regain his memory step by step. But there was no such luck. Sylar stood tall, arms crossed, as he saw Peter flip through numerous photo albums and suddenly felt a hand steady on his shoulder. He turned and saw Claire. "Come on, Elle says she needs to talk to us."

The sound of Elle's name made a shiver go down his spine, knowing now that she just used him six years ago, and he never meant anything to him, that she wasn't the same person, she was never. And the courtesy ought to be returned, Sylar though bitterly. Claire steered him to the kitchen, where Elle was sitting down, hands on her lap.

"I need to clarify things to you," she said formally. "About Peter." She nudged towards the seats at the dining table, indicating the couple should sit down to hear her.

"He might be the body of your Peter, but everything else is completely different," Elle narrowed her blue eyes.

"What do you mean?" Claire asked curiously.

"Now, this is the dossier of Peter Michaelson," Elle said, passing a brown file across the table, with a stamp on it proclaiming it was private property of Crestblade Facilities. "It says that he was put inside a cage for two months, as all of us were. And it would say that he is a known killer."

"No, he's not," Claire shaking her head.

"Look, pom-pom, you need to listen to me and get your head out of the clouds. That man has cocked too many guns, used too many powers and killed too many people, at least more than Peter Petrelli," Elle snapped. "What the dossier wouldn't say was that Peter is an alcoholic, that he likes to pick up outside women, and that he doesn't like to be involved, or attached, that keeps his distance from everything and anything that could tie him down. He is sarcastic, sometimes over crossing bitter and sullen."

"He can't be that bad," Sylar said.

"Oh, he is," Elle nodded enthusiastically. "Trust me; I'm only going to clarify this once because I'm sure you'll pick it up later on. That man is not Peter Petrelli, I'm telling you this because I don't want you to get your hopes up for something that's never gonna happen. Peter Petrelli died on September 21st 2008, laid to rest the following Sunday, leaving behind a pregnant fiancé and plenty other mourners, and he never came back."

* * *

A/N: Thank you, thank you very much! *peace sign* Review!

-Aly


	4. The Silent Men

**A/N: **And I'm back! The chapter was very easy to write, actually, i did it in about 4 hours straight.

Enjoy! And please read the A/N down there!

* * *

**Chapter Four**

"**The Silent Men"**

**All of which we have done, the deeds that God has bestowed upon us, but what is a quest without a messenger, all in white and pureness. This angel will instruct us how to wade around the world; this man speaks of signs and sights, no longer in sounds. A messenger is the ultimate silent man. **

Baltimore, Maryland

A stringy redheaded girl leaned against the chair in her motel room, reading the newspaper, her brown eyes merely skimming the headlines then continued rustling the paper to the next page. It was as if she was looking for specific news, maybe something she heard in the hallways of the motel, a piece of gossip circulating and she was hungry for more.

The girl was barely even 21; she looked more nineteen than any age. Her hair was pulled to the side, long enough to pass her shoulders and give her any warmth, and her skin was pale, much like a vampire's, gaunt and sometimes even stoic. She hummed under her breath and put down the paper on her stomach, as if waiting for something. Then, suddenly, the door was unlocked, revealing a young man, her age, with messy blonde hair and tall build.

"Where were you?" the girl asked him, her eyebrows quirking up.

"Making a call," the boy answered.

"Here, I got you breakfast," the girl said, passing him a greasy brown paper bag, brought from the fast food joint a few minutes away from the motel. "Something that will make your heart bitch-slap you in about ten years."

"I'll live long, Dawn," the boy sneered, landing on the bed and pulling out the unhealthy sandwich, in much contrast to Dawn's packed-up-and-ready-to-go Caesar salad.

"What was the call about?" Dawn asked, absent-mindedly opening the paper once again and the room was filled with the sounds of the boy's eating habits and the news wafting around them.

"A safe in New York, it belonged to some woman named Mare, I don't remember her first name," the boy answered.

"Don't remember or don't give a damn?" Dawn asked, chuckling, her eyes still on the print of the paper.

"Mostly the latter but they're asking us to cut this detour short to get there," the boy sighed. "And I was hoping for more time here at this beautiful run-down place."

"Whatever, I don't care. My job's my job, Riser, and I do what I do," Dawn said with faked civility. "But, whatever it is, we need to get the letter sent."

"Right, the infamous letter to our beloved comrade," Riser nodded. "Hmm, pass the ketchup?"

* * *

Petrelli-Gray Residence, New York

With a small groan, Peter steadied himself on the couch, his brown eyes opening up to the world, to the light illuminating in the apartment. He never had this kind of warm light back at Crestblade, and, somehow, he was happy for that, because he wouldn't have realized that it was actually kind of nice.

His legs felt like hard lead, and his neck seemed to have a cramp from sleeping this way the whole night on the pull-out couch. There wasn't much room to start with, and maybe Claire and Sylar should have thought of that in the beginning of buying the horrid furniture, but they probably wouldn't have anticipated the return of Peter.

Plus the fact that he was sharing the couch with Elle didn't make things better, but, then, he saw that her head was on his chest and her hand rested comfortably on his stomach then he immediately didn't seem to care, for he was a healer, anyway, and any cramp would be gone in seconds, and Elle seemed too beautiful to ignore. It was one of the vanities Peter had a rule for, just watching Elle, collecting her dreams, not knowing that this was one of the times he let his empathic side out, his sensitive heart, the Petrelli side.

Peter tangled his hands in his partner's hair, buried and stroking the blonde that made Elle herself, he wouldn't know how he would feel if she was to dye her hair, to a brunette, or a redhead, or a brown-haired vixen. He liked her just like this. He then separated himself from the contact, unwrapped his arms from her and set out to explore the area of Sylar and Claire.

There was a balcony up ahead, the curtains drawn so that fresh New York light could pass through to wake him up but Peter longed for air, so he opened it up and a gush of air slapped him in the face, as refreshing as water splashing on his young face. According to Sylar, he was supposed to be thirty two, but he didn't look a day older than twenty eight, the age when he died. Elle said a resurrected person would always come back as the age they died, Matt came back as an early thirties man, and Peter came back and looked much younger than his twin brother.

He looked more like Sylar's little brother and an on-looker wouldn't have known that they shared the same birth date, two days before Christmas. Sylar was nice and all, despite the fact that Claire acted evasive towards him, and Peter wished he could feel something for the man that declared himself as his brother, but he didn't, but, overall, it was the thought that counted.

What he felt towards Claire was pure physical attraction, how his eyes widened whenever she walked, how her hips swayed gracefully, how she kept her distance, as if one touch could bring back all those feelings, because, so far, they haven't touched, not even a passing accidental caress. Claire was careful. Not that he complained, he had Elle and she wasn't Claire by a long shot. Peter's fingers grazed the top of the countertop, the one that seemed to have the most meaningful pictures.

A picture of Claire, her hair drenched with sweat and looking exhausted, but looking happy altogether, holding her children in her hands, a teenage mother that was actually happy, he felt proud of her, actually. The picture of Peter and Claire, with Peter's face slashed with a deep scar, which he no longer had. A picture of Sylar and Claire with their kids in the park, followed by a snapshot of the whole gang together, since Peter didn't know them, he was curious.

An Indian man, arms wrapped a startling brunette woman, two teenagers, a blonde woman and a black man, a couple of Japanese dudes, him and Claire, and brown-haired boy, nineteen, at the least with a dark-haired beauty. She had green eyes, much like Claire's, and she was beautiful.

From her face, he saw another picture, framed in brown, shone like gold, with her headshot and the letters "Hannah- In Memoriam" written beneath it. Suddenly, Peter felt sorry for the girl, she seemed young and her whole life was ahead of her, she looked a lot like him, for some reason, maybe she was in the family, a distant relative, a cousin, maybe because she seemed to have a lot of Sylar in her, too.

Peter paced around the living room, breathing in the city air, and mused about his former self. It seemed unbelievable, these sort of things didn't happen, to anyone, to him, especially. Who was he to wake up one morning and see that everything had just changed? For him, for his team, for these people that were supposed to be family but seemed more like strangers to him.

They were nothing to him, and that wasn't supposed to sound cruel, it was supposed to sound indifferent, because that was what he felt. An air of civility was always needed around Claire and Sylar and over-politeness, the sort of good-boy attitude he used with Elsa, it was too formal for him.

Truthfully, he just wanted to go home. Lincoln was right, Crestblade was home to him, everything else was strange, and out of place for him, he belonged in a white building with corporate guys telling him what to do but he did it his own way. He definitely did not belong with them, these people. Truthfully, he was happy enough being oblivious.

* * *

Sylar moistened his lips, as though nervous about something, gazed outside the window and saw as much of New York that could fit inside the glass and held his hands together. The skin under his namesake seemed to have grown a rash, but he didn't give a damn to scratch it, the trouble seemed miniscule to the revelations that were blown out in the open yesterday.

By this thought, his brown eyes turned downcast and his thick eyebrows knotted together in thought and deliberation, his head spinning and having black-and-white flashbacks of yesterday. The return of his brother, unconscious and sleeping on the couch, then waking up and shattering every hope both Claire and Sylar had for their lives, for the kids, then Daphne, the best friend he hadn't seen in years, the woman he thought was dead due to the lack of contact that she bestowed upon him, and Elle, the remnant of his past.

What was worrying him was that Matt Parkman was here, and he was face to face to one person he hurt, he actually killed, and destroyed the lives of his wife and possible son. It was different with Peter, Sylar had a chance for redemption in his brother's eyes before he died, and with Molly, because she learned to forgive his mistakes and accept that he was trying to be better, he was trying to be Gabriel.

The thought of Molly made him think on the bright side of things, the silver lining, the gold beneath the dust of the road. The teenager had always convinced him to think good and the bad would just dwell in our minds, not willing to get out until we asked for it. For an adolescent, she was wiser than most kids her age; perhaps that was what you got for having such a troubled life and having a boyfriend with an IQ reaching the roof.

All this time, the hours since Peter's return, he had spent thinking about the bad, and he realized he shouldn't have, he shouldn't have thought about the good, and he was going to. the presence of Matt was easy, the fact that Matt didn't remember him killing him, just a four bullet shots through the chest instead of the customary knife mark made infamous by his murders spanning the great country of America. He could make a good, clean slate with the telepath, and he would learn to forgive him.

Daphne, well, Daphne's return had never been a problem, that had always something he loved about this collapse, that she was there to save him from the rubble, she was back in his life and that one fact, he was grateful about. Thankful that he had a chance to be a part of her life, a part of her daughter's life, he still found it hard to believe that Daphne was expecting. The sassy speedster he knew was in a family, she was in a family, married and anticipating the birth of her first child that she opted to name Daniella, after her grandmother.

And Elle, he vowed to not Elle be an obstacle, she wasn't anything to him. She wasn't even the woman he thought he was falling for, she lied to him, tricked him and dug him deeper just to find the core. Elle wasn't going to be problem, he was happy with Claire. Peter was the biggest problem.

His brother, God, he still had a brother. It was beyond words to describe what he felt at the moment, he felt like he was spinning, and gravity was pulling him up, and he was almost flying, he almost felt like his feet were three inches off the ground. It was an exhilarating high, to have his brother back, to make things due and make things right. Truth be told, Sylar was happy that Peter came along.

Everything had seemed too monotonous, every day was like a tick of a clock, it was always the same. The love of Claire and the kids made things slow down a bit, but, over the months, he dissolved into the crowd, like salt in water, like water seeping through a tissue. He became one single molecule amongst all the rest of them, and he was the one who could kill, who could save, he was better, he was different, he was special. He sacrificed it all for a promise he made.

Maybe he regretted that promise, just a little. He wouldn't have minded to sacrifice all of that, but he would've wanted to do it for his own gain. The older twin sighed, his brain was going through ragged tracks just then, thoughts were running into each other, and he didn't make sense. He got up from his kitchen seat lazily and got ready to cook breakfast, a challenge, because he was used to making an early bird for just Claire and Sylar and toddler food was easy to make, now there were four extra more people in the house.

"Morning," someone greeted him cheerfully. Sylar turned, and almost dropped a cereal box in the process, but, luckily, levitated it before it turned into mush.

"Morning," Sylar smiled meekly to his brother. "How long have you been awake?"

"Probably as long as you. I heard something in the kitchen when I woke up," Peter sat himself at a seat on the kitchen counter, something Claire insisted to have, just for guests. "So…you're my brother."

At this, Sylar stopped gathering breakfast materials altogether, and turned his brown eyes down before turning to face his younger, resurrected brother. "I'm your brother," he nodded. He rubbed his hands together and shifted his body as he sat back down on a chair, opposite Peter. "Do you want to know anything?"

"Were we close?" the amnesiac asked, his brown eyes lighting up.

"Not really, no. we grew up together, just for two years, and we just fell away. Both of us had powers, and I was a killer, then, and you were…" Sylar drifted away, shutting his eyes so that the bitter memories would go away.

"Easy prey," Peter nodded solemnly.

"Not so much. You were even competition, you fought back as hard as I did," Sylar chuckled darkly.

"What about my scar?" Peter traced a horizontal line on his face, something that was supposed to be there but was erased clean in death. "Did you give that to me?"

"No, sadly, our family's a bit dysfunctional, and a lot complicated. Our mother gave that to you," the watchmaker said. "You even used to have a scar on your arm, just a slash. You died that day, but, thanks to Claire, you survived."

"To die another day," Peter mused. "How complicated was our family?"

"Very complicated," Sylar insisted. "And it's a long story."

he then went back up to make things for breakfast, easily opening up cereal boxes, knowing full well that Daphne liked anything chocolate for breakfast, even for a snack in the evening. Sylar felt a shadow creep behind him, and, knowing it was Peter, he turned, handed him a cereal box and smiled, "I'll tell you over breakfast."

* * *

Peter and Sylar then fell into some sort of normalcy and the amnesiac actually felt comfortable, he felt like he belonged, he knew what shape his piece was in this puzzle. Peter realized they weren't so different, after all. Wit ultimately ran in the family, so each boy would come back with comments sharp and edgy, funny altogether.

And it also helped that Peter read, mostly during his solitary days, and that Sylar could recall every sentence of every book he ever read ever since he was twenty six years old because that was when he acquired super memory from Charlie Andrews. They bonded, and talked cheerfully as if they actually were family, as though Peter never died, and they were handed a clean space on the floor for them to stain it with chalk in any way they wanted.

It was theirs now, and Peter no longer felt alienated when he thought of Sylar as his brother. Little by little, people began to filter towards the kitchen, and the brothers happily served them breakfast in the form of waffles, or even, pancake, because Sylar just felt like it.

"What's for breakfast?" Elle asked, finally waking up.

"A choice of pancake and waffle," Peter replied to the blonde woman.

"Fill me up with waffles, then," Elle smiled as Peter did just that and her plate was filled with a waffle, covered in syrup, making her grin grow even wider. She was famished. Peter placed a kiss onto her lips and said, "Enjoy, m'lady."

This kiss was witnessed by both Daphne and Matt, but thought nothing of it as if it was routine for Peter, the apparently emotion-less and apathic Peter Michaelson, to open up the day by kissing Elle Bishop, his apparent partner. Sylar, on the other hand, couldn't help but say, trying to seem cool, "You didn't tell me you and Elle were together."

"Not exclusively, and it didn't come up," Peter then spotted the expression on his brother's face. "Just to be fair, you're macking on my ex and I'm not complaining."

Sylar didn't bring up Elle again after that, and he wasn't planning to again, too. He felt bitter towards the electro-girl, every time he saw her, a part of him insisted to be indifferent towards her. It sounded cruel, sure, but she was cruel, she broke him before he found his missing pieces with Daphne. Then Sylar stepped out of himself, and realized just how surreal this situation was. Barely even 24 hours since the car crash, and, here they were, raising voices and clattering their forks and knives, and the toddler squeals that were normal in Sylar's life.

It seemed surreal, this wasn't supposed to work out this easily, this wasn't supposed to have a story book ending, it wasn't supposed to end this early. He wanted something more, something more to hold on to, something to tell his own kids, whether their mother be Claire or someone else, it wasn't supposed to be this easy.

Earning a brother's love, a brother's trust was hard, and he wasn't a miracle worker, because he was becoming more and more human everyday. Then he found himself ungrateful, and, for what it was worth, being thankful to God was something he should have in him, for bringing back his brother.

There was a knock on the door and Claire, a smile on her face from a joke Matt just told that erupted laughter from the entire crowd, with Michael in one of her arms, wailing for Mayday, opened it, only to reveal a stranger. A dark-haired stranger, with pale skin for her most revealing trait, plus the anxious expression she was wearing and the messy look that aired about her.

"Where is he?" she asked straight-forwardly. Claire, not knowing who 'he' was, it could refer to Sylar, or Matt, or Peter, just pointed to the kitchen, trying as hard as she could to stop Michael's crying about this stranger just pounding into their house. Back in the kitchen, the young woman came in and breathed, "Peter."

At that, Peter turned his head and there was Alice Adams, almost out of breath. "Alice?" he asked.

"Yeah, of course it's Alice, what, you think I'm a hallucination?" the young woman snickered.

"I've heard stranger things," Peter chuckled and looked at Sylar for that statement, and his older brother smiled before crossing his arms, indicating to the intrusion in the form of Alice Adams.

"Why are you hyperventilating? You can teleport, can't you?" the amnesiac asked his caretaker.

"Getting a load rustier, this teleporting thing, I can't jump as easily, I landed in Brooklyn," Alice explained.

"Excuse me, but who are you?" Sylar asked.

"I'm Alice," the young woman smiled, and put files on the table of the kitchen. "And, if you would see this, I'm also your half-sister."

"Damn," Peter rubbed his temple. "It never ends! Revelation after revelation, all tied up in this conspiracy little web! Oh, you people are great con people."

"Half-sister?" Sylar asked intriguingly, opening the file to the first page.

It revealed a picture of Alice, about five or six with a young woman he presumed was her mother. The picture had a caption below it, saying that it was Alice Adams with her mother, Sophia Mare. "Our dad, Daniel Linderman, swell man, he is, knocked up my mom at seventeen, long story short, this is one big family reunion," the jumper said, pocketing her hands.

Her calmness particularly shocked Sylar, mostly because he had never encountered someone so cool and collected about a situation like this. "How long have you known?" Peter nudged his older brother to pass on the file. "Since I was eight," Alice sat next to Elle, her eyes still plastered on each of her brothers.

"Eight, wow, that's a long time, Al," Peter said, glancing up from the files that revealed just why Alice had been so close to him during his months at Crestblade. "I know it is," the jumper sighed.

"Did you know about this?" Peter asked his team.

Matt shrugged, for he was as oblivious as his best friend was in the situation, but his wife, on the other hand, immediately set her head low, signaling that she did know. Elle was the only one still standing without a written word of confusion on her face, and Peter knew, just from her face, that she knew, too. She probably more than Daphne and Matt put together and she didn't want to tell him.

"What else have you been hiding from me? Am I an international spy, do I have a bomb implanted inside my chest and if I snap, I blow up half of the continent? Who else do I have? Do I have a cousin that I've known my whole life, too? Do I have kids I don't know about?" Peter bellowed.

At the last question, Sylar and Claire looked at each other, remembering full well that last night that had decided not to tell Peter that the children were his, that they were Sylar's. But, luckily, Peter's outburst was focused on his team and newly-revealed half-sister, and not towards the watchmaker and the young mother, who had abandoned all efforts to comfort her son, instead letting him go back to bed, where his sister was.

"Pete, I'm sorry," Alice said, barely even a breath.

"You don't get to talk to me," Peter pointed an angry finger at her face. "I'm sick of this." He then looked apologetically to his brother and Claire, and said, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring any of this in your house, to your kids. I've overstayed my visit."

Those were his last words before he went into the guest room with a slamming of the door, leaving Claire and Sylar awestruck, not to mention his team and sister. "Let him cool down," Daphne said empathically. "He'll be fine."

* * *

Night brought sleep and serenity, but, for Claire, it brought restlessness, it brought insomnia and the incapability to look at her children without bringing up the word lie to her mind. But, she thought, it was a necessary lie, something that would protect the man that was supposed to be their father. But this man was merely a shell of the man she used to love more than life itself and Elle was right, after today, she needed to get her head out of the clouds.

Life was never fair, and, sometimes, it was a bitch. This was one of those times where its bite was worse that it's bark. The midnight moon hovered over her, as she wrapped herself more with her night robe, silk that clung to her body and she covered her face with her hands. She suddenly felt someone else's presence. She wasn't surprised, occupants like this, with a day like that, that someone would find as much restlessness as she. She looked up and, judging from his form, she knew who it was.

"Can't sleep?" she asked the shadow. Claire and Peter hadn't talked properly ever since he arrived, she had been avoiding him, perhaps she was too scared for stirring up old fires and opening up wounds that never really fully healed.

"Nope," Peter smiled weakly at her. "It's just those things Alice said, and what they all said, and what they didn't say, who can sleep after that? They've been hiding so much from me and I don't think I even know them anymore."

"They love you," Claire shrugged.

"Love is for the desperate, no offence intended," Peter took up a defensive hand.

"And you're not desperate?" Claire asked.

"Not at the slightest. I'm fine the way I am. I don't need anyone taking care of me, or looking out for me. I'll be fine on my own," Peter said. "Everybody needs somebody," Claire pointed out. "Life isn't a Dean Martin song for everyone, Claire. Not everyone needs somebody; some people can just go through life without depending on anyone," Peter looked at her.

It was official, she didn't feel anything for this man in front of her, she felt indifferent, not hate- who could hate the shell of the great love of their life? How could he feel so apathic to the world? One minute, he was fine, he seemed normal enough, smiling and joking then the next, he feels like he's a total badass and doesn't need anyone or anything to hold on to.

Suddenly, there was a rustle of paper coming through the living room, it was weird. Sylar didn't buy the paper today and all their books were in the cupboards. Peter noticed it, too so he went towards the living room. Curiosity plagued Claire's senses as she followed behind him. Then, there it was, a strange letter.

It wasn't just the placement of the letter, it was the glow. It shined with an odd gold, it was odd because letters weren't supposed to glow, they were supposed to remain just white and it wasn't supposed to shine. They inched closer and closer towards the glowing letter and something triggered inside of the young mother, it was the same hybrid of suspense and courage blended into one, the night Peter died, in that building in Bangkok.

She was almost sure that this letter wouldn't have the same consequence as that building did. Sure, it was glowing but it couldn't kill three lives at once, could it? It was best not to ask questions. When Peter kneeled to take it, Claire put a worried hand on his shoulder and it almost felt like old times. But the old Peter would have hesitated before taking it into his hands, this one just straight away took it from the floor and opened it. Instantly, the glow spread to his face as he read it aloud.

"Through dark and light, through heart and soul, our mission has been to save our savior. Our first has fallen, our last away, an opposition enigma we call our own," Peter said confused, but continued nonetheless. "A secret passed from old to young, a prophecy shared from father to son, a century wakes, a bright new dawn, at last our savior's face will be shown. Truth is hidden behind the noble and strong, tucked away safely in the location for the man of God."

Peter paused and looked at the glowing letter again, confused and quite irritated. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" he asked, to no one in particular.

"And what is that?" Claire asked, pointing towards the symbol at the bottom of the letter.

* * *

A/N: **PS: Mucho importante! I can't draw the symbol right here, but please see my icon. Looks like S**T, yes, but it was the best I could in short notice. **

Originally, I wanted to make the letter myself and post it on my livejournal, complete with decoration and handwritten writing, but I didn't have enough time. Probably next chap, I'll post it.

-Aly

* * *


	5. Walls and Arcs

**A/N: Sorry it's so late! I've been super busy. Don't expect updates next week coz I've got exams and I won't have time...**

**Okay, uhhh...that flashback with Alice is Alice and Peter when they were kids. Long story short, Alice went looking for her real family and she found Peter, who didn't know she was his sister. And, yes, Laur, Dianne is dedicated to YOUR Dianne. **

**I hate this chap, so it's okay if you guys hate it, too...**

**Oh yea, and three cheers for Dani who has hopped back onto the TFT-train!**

* * *

Chapter Five

"**Walls and Arcs"**

**Unfurling before us, the bricks of stone, the foundations of the very world, the arc that keeps building itself over and over, leading to the other side, and the walls we keep building to hide ourselves, which to we choose to construct. The barrier or the connector?**

Two things were bothering him just then, the fact that the letter was still glowing, and the fact that he still cared about that damned letter. Cared enough to glance over the table, making sure it wasn't made of some sort of explosives that could destroy the residence. Cared enough that, when sleep consumed him whole-heartedly, his hands were still clutching that letter, as if it were to fly away or do something more than mundane, he could feel it in his grip.

Peter Michaelson was certainly an intriguing human being; he was in a Petri dish at the moment, vulnerable and everything. He was sleeping, and it was the few moments where nothing emerged from him, no curses, so sarcastic remarks, no anything that was so much part of himself. In sleep, this was a man made simple. In real life, he couldn't be more complicated.

The way he carried himself, in a way that he never needed anyone in his entire life, when, in fact, he did; he needed his best friend to be his staple to the ground, he needed his speedster to be the mother he never had, taking care of him through everything, he needed his full-of-sparks pseudo-girlfriend for her antics inside and outside the bedroom.

The way he acted, with sarcasm laced with uncaring feelings on the surface and he talked like everything was okay, even when the revelation was blown out in the open that he was a dead man walking, when, inside, he was more of Peter Petrelli than ever a Michaelson. A complex man, there was more to him that what everything thought he was, what Claire and Sylar wanted to be, he had something to offer, trapped inside that shell, but he didn't need it to be revealed. He was fine. The presence of the glowing, mysterious letter didn't change that very fine situation.

"Pete, wake up," Peter felt insistent shaking on his shoulder. He groaned, and mumbled something incoherent, but, eventually, looked up to see the man that awoke him in a sudden state. It wasn't Sylar, as soon as Peter's eyes focused; he saw that it was Matt Parkman, the telepath Peter was proud to declare his best friend. He sat down next to Peter at the kitchen table as Peter began to recollect his being from sleep.

"I take it I shouldn't have woken you up?" Matt asked.

"No, you shouldn't have. I was just about to win Are You Smarter than a 5th Grader," Peter rubbed his eyes. "Crazy days, huh?"

"Yeah, definitely, crazy days," Matt nodded in agreement. "You're the only one that gets it, Matty," Peter smiled at his friend. "Fine, you don't get the same situation, but you died, and you came back. You get it."

"More than I want to," Matt set his eyes downcast. "Listen, about Alice. You shouldn't be mad at her like the way you are."

"She lied to me," Peter felt a fire in his heart for her. "You forgave Elle and Daphne for keeping these things from you, why can't you do the same for Alice?" Matt asked. "Because they're not my family and it's not the same," Peter said.

Peter wanted to forgive his caretaker, he wanted to, but he only felt a fire in his heart for her. But he wanted to. Besides, this was the woman who smelled the alcohol on his breath the day Lincoln died, and who rubbed his back when he threw up across the floor. She took care of him, gave him everything he wanted and needed, in more ways than one, she was a better mother than Daphne.

But it was like wildfire for him, he just couldn't. Peter stopped thinking once Matt set his sights on the letter in his hands. It stopped glowing with a golden sheen, it was now shining green like emeralds in the dark, or radioactive waste in the water. Matt's eyes widened at the sight and Peter handed it over to him without a word.

The telepath's eyes scanned the letter like Matt was a machine and the letter was a fingerprint tapped into the database; his brown eyes seemed engrossed and intent at the print in front of him. The telepath then looked up from the letter and to Peter, as if he thought Peter had all the answers.

"What are you looking at me for? Do I look like a magic 8 ball to you?" Peter shrugged but asked his friend, nonetheless, "Do you know what it means?"

"Nope, it's completely cryptic, like a freaking riddle, but I can tell you about the letter," Matt inspected it when intent brown eyes. "Any idea why it's glowing like it's out of an Indiana Jones movie?" Peter asked, tilting his head.

"No, that's still a mystery. But the letter, it must've lived long, probably even through World War II. It's dusty and it's been touched too many times. But we probably can't get any fingerprints, though; the material's too delicate. It looks like it's been kept in a box for a long time," Matt explained; Peter engrossed. Truly, Matt Parkman belonged on Crime and Investigation, with his skills, plus the fact that his former self had been a detective and, according to Claire and Sylar, had a stint as an FBI agent.

"There's golden dust here," the telepath brushed his fingers across the rusty material of the letter. "From faeries?" Peter chuckled and got a glare as his response.

"No, it's like a decoration, but not quite. An ancient letter, with a modern envelope," Matt mused. "Question is now, why would they send it here? There's no address, no nothing. It's like they knew exactly who they were after and didn't need any pointers. It sort of freaks me out."

"Everything freaks me out, down to the last golden speck," Peter sighed. "Who do we know that lives here that's part of this?"

"Problem is what exactly is this? Could be a joke, a prank, could be nothing to get worked up about," Matt pointed out.

"I admire you for having your head screwed on right," Peter smiled at his best friend.

"I keep you grounded, buddy," the telepath grinned back.

"But it could be freaking conspiracy, Matty, how do we know what it is or what it's not? After all we've been through, powers and dead men walking, this could be anything."

A door opened in the apartment opened just then, revealing the young woman that sent a wildfire through him with her lies and her numerous cover-ups. Alice always had a heart for Peter, and usually, the courtesy was returned with meaningful smiles and conversations over Elsa's quesadillas.

Matt was right Peter shouldn't be mad at her because she was the one who took care of him and he owed her for everything. Plus the news that Alice was his sister had to mean something, had to send some form of happy emotion surging through his veins but it didn't. All this time, Peter had thought they were related by heart but, instead, it was by blood. His feelings for her were wrought with indifference. That seemed to be happening a lot these days, especially towards Claire. Truthfully, Matt _did _keep him grounded.

Alice looked at Peter and stopped in her tracks. She looked at him uncomfortably then set her eyes downcast and sat next to Matt instead of Peter, like she usually would. Something baffled him and that was the fact that Alice was still here. She could've been back in the confines of Crestblade by now, she could've jumped and he wouldn't have to feel this uncomfortable with the woman who usually topped him on his feet.

"What's that?" Alice asked awkwardly clearing her throat.

"Came in last night, it's still a mystery," Matt handed it to her, all the while looking at Peter with a somewhat disapproving look on his face. She read the letter quietly then gasped when she saw the end of the letter, the symbol and the crest that accompanied it. "What? Do you know what it means?" Peter asked, his first words to her since the incident, and it was soft as honey not rough as a rock like it had been yesterday.

"No, but I know who it's from," Alice looked up, her face speaking of surprise. "The symbol here, I'd recognize it anywhere. Lincoln showed it to me when I was a kid. He told me they were all gone, that it was ancient history…"

"Bring us with you, Al. I'm lost right now," Peter said.

"All this time, you were thinking Crestblade was the villain with our solitary cells and lies. All those things was a veil for something more dangerous. Lincoln just wanted to protect you," Alice glanced back and forward between the two supposed-to-be dead men. "From what?" Matt asked.

"From the bigger threat," Alice said, as if she was in a thriller movie and she was Agatha Christie's brave heroine. "They call themselves the Knights of Messiah."

"Knights of Messiah? Are they super religious or are they just extremely humble?" Peter crossed his arms.

"I don't know much about them. All Lincoln told me was that they were dangerous," the jumper said. "He didn't even know how many there were, they could be hundreds of them."

"Why did they send it here?" Matt asked. "God knows. Lincoln only knew one of them and his identity was taken to his grave. They could be aiming at anyone," Alice explained. "But we're sure this is real? Because it all sounds like bull shit up this point, sounds surreal," Peter inquired.

"Yeah, it's real. The Knights are a secret society. Anyone who knows their symbol or the crest must be one of them or an heir soon enough," Alice said. Peter was quiet, because he meant was he said, it all did seem like bullshit, this could be nothing and what Lincoln fed Alice as a kid were just paper flying gossip. But, somehow, all Peter could think of right at that moment was that he and Alice were on speaking terms.

* * *

_It was spring, and everything looked lovely, in the New York park where they strolled, dozens of tress gave them shade, not to mention a pleasant view. A teenaged boy was carrying a little girl on his back, and she was smiling with glee, her arms thrown around the boy's front. The girl had a strip of her reddish-brown hair in a braid and she pushed it away from her face as the boy let her down. _

_They sat on a park bench and suddenly, after moments of silence, the boy told her, "Happy birthday." _

_"You remembered!" the girl's face lighted up with happiness that could be emitted by someone so innocent. _

_"Of course I did, and I got you something," the boy said, reaching into his knapsack, finally pulling out a figurine resembling Super-girl with blonde hair and a red cape, only she was wearing normal jeans and a blue shirt, but the red material hung behind her flowed in the wind. _

_"Oh my God, thanks!" the girl said gratefully and hugged the dark-haired boy. "What's her name?" the boy asked her, leaning in his seat. _

_"Hmm," the girl pondered for a moment then finally thought it through. "Dianne. Her name's gonna be Dianne." _

Alice Adams woke up with a gasp, recovering from the flashback that was thrown towards her way. A pang of nostalgic feeling went through her, and, not to mention guilt. She was a damned liar. She was crossing lines she already crossed million times over, as if she hadn't learned her lesson just yet and she was piling up all the mistakes until she was sunk under.

Damn it, she was born into a family that had lies from the very beginning, or at least some form of cover up, it was just in her blood to be like this, even if it was to one of her own, her brother. The brother who doesn't remember their days, sun soaked under the New York heat, where he looked at her as a sister and she hid that she actually was.

The teenage boy that always greeted her with a smile and a welcoming hug, and one of the few people who always remembered her birthday, all those years she stayed with him, he always remembered. She left abruptly, almost like fleeing the night like a ghost. They said their goodbyes, sure, but neither of them was ready. Alice had been 12, Peter five years her senior, already thinking colleges and the final exams in which he would be liberated from soon.

The jumper leaned to one side of her face, thinking what good came from Peter's resurrection, truthfully, none. She would have to be selfish to say something did. Merely broken promises and everything hellish, that was what she brought instead of putting Peter down as Lincoln asked. And plus the prospects of the Knights coming back. And the fact that Alice didn't tell them the whole truth.

Her fingers inched towards her phone, the one in her jeans pocket, ready to call the one person who would understand that wasn't dead or an amnesiac. "Claude?" she asked into the receiver.

"Alice? I've been expecting a call from you," he said calmly. "Where's the prodigal daughter now? With her brother, no doubt, huh?"

"You read me well, Claude," Alice chuckled. "Listen, I've got something to tell you."

"Oh yeah?" Claude asked.

"You remember Lincoln…"

"Lincoln? My best friend, the man I took a bullet for? Yeah, I remember him."

"And you remember the Knights, don't you? Involved in some strange murders a few years ago in Washington?" Alice asked.

"It wasn't just by Washington, love, it happened a few blocks from our place, too," Claude said. "Yeah, well, Lincoln either lied to us or he really didn't know, but the Knights aren't gone, they're well awake and ready," Alice said to her practically second father.

"What do you mean?" the invisible man asked. "Our heroes here got a letter last night, and it came here without an address, no point of delivery and it was glowing. I read the letter, and, there it was, the symbol and crest of the Knights," Alice explained, rubbing her temples because she had one hell of a headache.

"You're sure of it?" Claude asked. "Positive," the jumper nodded. "So you told them everything?' Claude asked.

"Not exactly," Alice said. "I may have sugarcoated it a little, but it's for their own safety. Just because the letter ended up here doesn't mean aims are necessary. What they don't know won't hurt them…right?"

* * *

Claire and Sylar were in the kids' room, the walls painted a light green, a comforting color and the ceiling with one circle of toys that neither child amuses much for anymore.

Sylar had Hannah on his lap, her dark hair pulled to the side as Sylar rocked his niece in the chair mad just for that. It was an antique rocking chair, Meredith told them that it belonged to her grandmother, and the flame-throwing estranged mother of Claire told them that she had no use for it; it was better left used than stored in the attic. It soon became Hannah's favorite chair. Michael, on the other hand, was playing with building blocks on the floor, over looked by his young mother.

"Sylar?" Hannah asked, after moments of silence. "Yeah?" her uncle responded.

"Is that man Daddy?" she asked, looking at him with a crease in her three-year-old face. With that, the watchmaker glanced at Claire, who looked calm and, in turn, answered her daughter by saying, "Maybe. If you hope really hard, he could be."

Sylar looked at immensely confused but also defensive for his brother, knowing full well he had sort of accepted his being and didn't want him to change. It was a different story for Claire, no doubt, Sylar realized. She didn't see him in a light that Sylar saw his long-lost brother. Sylar was making up for the years he himself had been estranged from him; Claire was making up for the years _the kids_ had been estranged from Peter.

"Claire?" a voice came from the door. It was Elle. "Can I see you for a while?"

Claire nodded and gave Hannah a kiss on the top of her head. "What?" she spat and crossed her arms. The cheery, apple pie young mom act immediately disappeared and she became her normal spiting self, the same girl Peter saved at Homecoming.

"I heard you in there," Elle said. "And you can't be serious. You just have to accept that he's not the same anymore. And he told me that you weren't too hot for him, either. Last night when the letter came in, he could see that you were trying."

"I'm still trying," Clare said matter-of-factly.

"Well don't. Look, we might not be best friends, and we're far away from making fucking bracelets for each other, but you've got a family. I don't wanna see that fall away just because you're trying too hard," Elle said, a compassionate side showing. "You can't wash the stain day and night hoping it'll go away."

"It _will_ go away," the young mother smirked. "You just have to use better detergent."

"Use Dynamo, then," a voice interrupted Claire and Elle. Claire swished her hair and saw three figures by the door, a blonde woman, a brown-haired teenage girl and a dark teenage boy, "Micah?"

* * *

At the corner of her eye, Claire saw Peter coming in from the kitchen on to the living room, and she immediately took action by telling the band of metahumans standing in front of her with gleeful smiles and faces expecting nothing out of the ordinary, "You know what, Sylar's gonna be out in just a minute, why don't you sit down and I'll make you guys something to eat."

Claire then just practically sprinted to the kitchen where Peter was coming from. He looked at her and said nonchalantly, "Hey, Sylar told me you guys had a copy of the Long Walk, any idea where it is?" Peter was heading towards the entrance of the living room, then Claire placed a hand on his chest, stopping him in his tracks,

"Whoa, don't go there." Peter looked down on her, a smirk reveling on his lips, "And why is that? Is Sylar naked or something? One of your kinks?"

"Old friends are out there. And they don't exactly know that you're an amnesiac, or alive, for that matter. I prefer to give you a heads-up before you cause a chain of mini-strokes," Claire said to him. "Okay?"

"Fine," Peter sighed. "I used to know a lot of people; I'm getting bored of telling them I'm not their Peter."

"Yeah, yeah, being popular is a pain," the young mother nodded her head. "True that," the amnesiac smiled down on her.

Claire looked up to his eyes, and, for a moment, when a smile showed on his face, he looked a lot like her Peter. The man she collided with at Homecoming, the man who lived with for two years, the man she loved and never stopped loving even when she was with Sylar. Sometimes, on random and unexpected times, Sylar's more like Peter than she ever imagined.

Right then, Peter was looking down on her with his hard edges softened, he almost looked concerned. Claire hastily took away her hand, and cleared her throat while Peter spent a few good seconds facing the other way.

When he finally faced back, he asked, "Who are they?"

"Niki Sanders and her son Micah with his girlfriend, Molly," Claire answered matter-of-factly.

"Son? She does not look old enough to be a mom," Peter glanced at the super strong blonde, who was still oblivious. "Did she get knocked up at 18 like you?" "And here I was, thinking you could be a decent guy and you bring up my Juno situation," the young mother glared at him jokingly.

"Do you want me to stay cooped up here until our 'old friends' leave or do you wanna fill me in?" the amnesiac asked.

"Niki saved your ass during Kirby, Molly's got the ability to find anything and anyone and Micah's her boyfriend, can control technology," Claire explained, walking around the kitchen, finally finding a place behind the counter, putting together some snacks.

"On a level of closeness?" Peter asked, formally, turning back so he faced her.

"You were really close to Molly, Micah was sort of your confidante and I think you always had a thing for Nik," Claire said. "And don't even think about going near her."

"All good. Okay, then, I'm ready to disintegrate their dreams. You wanna stay or are you gonna watch the show?" Peter strutted towards the entrance but turned back to see Claire's agape face at his calmness. "Don't worry, Claire-bear, I've had loads of practice."

* * *

The two teenage metahumans were the ones who completely, whole-heartedly listened and accepted to the fact that Peter was alive but didn't know or recognize any of them. They heard the explanation and utterly believed what Elle was saying, what Peter was saying, what Sylar was interpreting to them slowly and good-heartedly, something that seemed to tick both Peter and Elle off.

It seemed that the two teenagers had heard enough craziness in their young lives that they just shrugged it off as a 'whatever' business. But Molly did shut up when she saw Matt Parkman, alive and well in the flesh. It took years but the girl finally just opened her mouth and did and said nothing. The teenager immediately jumped onto the amnesiac telepath who didn't know her and hugged him.

Matt, being the better man amongst the team, just embraced her and smiled. Peter saw his behavior towards the little girl, and it seemed very fatherly, something he was trying nurture in early nature. When Micah introduced himself as Molly's boyfriend, Matt merely glared at the poor boy. Niki, on the other hand, took a different spin on things; she passed out.

"I really have that effect on women," Peter laughed, helping Sylar carry Niki to the guest room where Matt and Daphne were staying at the moment.

"Tell us about the letter," Micah said, leaning back in his seat. "Should we tell or show?" Peter asked the boy genius, handing over the letter to him. Molly leaned against her boyfriend so she could read it better.

"Any ideas?" Sylar asked, sitting next to his brother. "Some, actually," Micah answered.

"Takes a 17 year old to decipher it," Alice chuckled, her arms crossed.

"This is obviously talking about some savior, someone we obviously don't know yet, but, according to Alice, they're called the Knights of Messiah, right?" Micah looked up to the jumper.

"Right," she nodded.

"I guess that these Knights, these people, want to protect this savior, this Messiah. It says here in the first line, 'to save our savior'. The part where a century wakes, I take it they've been around for at least a hundred years," Micah nodded to himself. "Then that's where I draw a blank. The last line is pure riddle."

"I feel like I should be clapping or something," Peter said. "I'd watch out if I were you guys. The way they sent it, it's like it's not their last one," the technopath said carefully, as if he was scared someone was hearing in on them.

"We should probably go now, we've got a babysitting job," Molly stood up. "That Jonathan kid?" Claire asked.

"Yeah, his brother's busy and we're his Godsend," Molly said.

"What about Niki?" Sylar asked. "I could jump her back to her house, if you want," Alice offered. "Thanks, that would be great. But, we're bunking in at Mohinder's while he's in the hospital," Micah nodded.

"Mia's still in that coma, then?" Sylar asked and Molly nodded solemnly towards her foster mother's condition. "Who's taking care of Joshua?"

"Right now, he's at Greg and Jen's, playing with Hunter," Molly answered, talking about her baby brother.

"You wanna see the kids for a while? They're just inside their room," Claire asked, for she knew Molly was the kid's favorite babysitter. The teenager shook her head for no, but smiled all the same.

Of course, the Crestblade Crew just stood there, fitting nowhere into this family, this band of metahumans that became so close there were invisible threads closing in on them. The two teenagers left the apartment, but not before Sylar said, "Be sure to tell the rest." Peter felt a giant weight lift off his shoulders; this was most probably the last time he had to confront a figure of his past and blow them away with his asshole-ness.

"That was successful," Peter said sarcastically.

"It went better than I thought it would," Sylar turned to his brother. Seeing that his brother was on the couch, he asked him to turn on the TV for the afternoon news. Peter did so without complain and leaned back in his seat, with Elle next to him.

It almost seemed normal, being squished in the middle of his brother and his sort-of girlfriend, with his best friend and his wife on the next couch, watching the news. His half-sister- he still gritted his teeth saying that –meanwhile, just stood in the background like the high school loner. On the screen showed a crime scene with a blonde woman behind the tape.

"Turn that up," Alice said.

"Police in Quebec, Canada found a woman's body outside her apartment building. It seems that the woman committed suicide, but the detectives tell us that she showed signs of struggle," the reporter, a black woman in a grey suit, said. "The detective working on the case is FBI's Audrey Hanson. The victim appears to be a long-time resident of Canada, a woman by the name of Sophia Mare."

Peter, immediately triggered by the familiarity of the woman's name, looked at his sister. Alice stood agape, her arms at the side with her face white as a ghost's, mumbling, over and over again, "Mommy?"

* * *

_Quebec, Canada_

Agent Audrey Hanson was used to working in big cases, not small-time appearing-to-be suicides in Canada. Maybe it was the fact that she was jet-lagged that made her a tad cranky. The police squad didn't seem to help, either. The only competent man around was a man named Anthony who wore a big, shiny badge.

"Someone tell the press to get away from here," Audrey snapped to one of the juniors. The blinking lights and reporters around them annoyed her to no end.

"Hey, Hanson, we found something!" Anthony called out for her. The blonde detective then crouched to where Anthony was, near the woman's body and he pointed out something on the woman's back. It was a burnt mark, something someone did with a lighter with her struggling, a symbol burnt crisp into her skin.

"We shouldn't tell the press about this. Don't let them worry," Anthony nodded to himself. "They could be talking about the next Zodiac." "Let's hope it's not that threatening," Audrey said as a silent prayer.

* * *

A/N: Review!


	6. Take These Words

**A/**N: I've been having my exams the past week and I haven't had time to update but here it is now!!!

Also:** This is the starting chapter where bits and pieces of the mystery are coming together. Miniscule clues will be given out and it's just up to you now...**

And... **Note back to when Micah deciphered the letter, and said they were looking for a savior. Up till now, all the names of the candidates for savior have been mentioned.**

And I'm sorry for the Spongebob reference... I was babysitting... ENJOY!**

* * *

**

**Chapter Six**

"**Take These Words"**

**These are the words engraved in solid stone and it cannot be rubbed off, it is evidence, it is the truth of what life. It isn't the future, it's the past, replaying and recollecting, it's always there, no matter how much we try to forget. **

_Quebec, Canada_

Audrey Hanson was the first one out of the squad to enter the deceased's apartment. The press had asked her if there were signs of struggle, and, upon stepping inside the room, her answer became 'indefinitely'.

The paintings on the walls were torn down, the paint was chipped-she didn't know if it was a product for her death or naturally like that-papers and documents were strewn about like it was set in a hurry.

The crime scene almost looked posed, down to the last torn piece of scattered paper. Audrey lived long enough, watched enough CSI and been in her fair share of real live cases to know the difference. But, even so, fake or not, one thing stood out on the walls, a bloody imprint of a hand, pushed to the side, as if that person's hand had landed on the dull-colored wall before being pushed down to the floor. What Audrey was sure was that the victim was attacked.

Whoever did the attacking did it either silently and did the entire crime scene top to bottom or loudly and the whole place was his real doing. Sophia Mare couldn't have been dead and walked around destroying her apartment for the police. It might've been six years since Parkman, Sylar and Sprague, but she was still used to the fact that there were, in fact, stranger things.

"Agent Hanson?" Anthony called for her. "Would you like me to do anything?"

"I'd _like_ for the team to take photos of the scene and test the blood on the walls," Audrey said to him. "But you, I'd like you to help me search this place, head to toe."

"Okay, them," Anthony nodded, smiling a little to himself and followed her lead, pacing around the apartment. He stopped for a moment and looked around the apartment, just there, in the centre of the living room, looking up to the ceiling that was the better part of the room. The man's eyes scanned, until he hit a part of a wall on the right.

"Look, the symbol again," he pointed from afar. "And looks like it's written in blood."

"As all great messages are," Audrey looked closer on what the young man had pointed to.

There wasn't just a symbol; there was something else, too. A microscopic text of two numbers that she wouldn't have seen if she hadn't zoomed in with her eyes that adapted to crime scene vision. "What does that say?" she asked, pointing to it.

"23," Anthony answered after seconds of squinting.

"23? What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Audrey asked.

"Could be a number of things, but the one thing that pops into my mind is the 23 enigma," Anthony said. Seeing her confused look, the young man proceeded to explain, "It's belief that the number is connected to every good and bad event in a person's life. I mean, Prophet Muhammad took a total of 23 years to get the Koran right. Michael Jordan was number 23. Haven't you seen Number 23?"

"I doubt a Hollywood movie's got anything to do with this woman's death," Audrey sneered.

"Whatever, but it's there and it's the only thing I can think of, and I have a knack for remembering useless things," the young detective shrugged measly.

"Come on, we haven't searched the whole place yet," Audrey tore her eyes away from the bloody symbol and the number. "You take left, I'll take right."

Anthony nodded and turned left in the apartment. She searched silently, her eyes scanning every inch of the perimeter for anything suspicious, as soon as she entered the bedroom, she found none. The bedroom, it seemed, hadn't been touched, it was perfect and in perfect contact, the sheets were pulled up, it looked liked it had just been through a maid's service. As much as the living and front room were torn, this room was in perfect condition.

"Found anything?" Anthony appeared by her side. "This," the young Hanson opened her right arm to show him the almost suspicious condition of the room.

"And, apparently _that_," the young detective pointed to the corner of the room.

There, sitting on top of a shelf, hidden by books and CDs, was a safe. Iron steel and unscratched, it was in the room. Sophia Mare's information didn't include much, but they made it pretty clear that the woman wasn't loaded, certainly not rich enough to afford a safe and have it hidden in plain sight.

Anthony inched closer towards the safe, and tried opening it, it took practically no effort for the young man, because it was already open. "Weird," he mumbled under her breath.

"What's in it?" Audrey asked.

"Nothing, it's clear," Anthony ran his hands around the cold, iron steel. "I take it they've searched it when they came in here."

"Maybe that's why the room's clean. It was hidden in plain sight while they ransacked everything for it," Audrey crossed her arms and looked at the man who was still scouring for anything out of the ordinary.

Suddenly, his eyes widened and looked back into the safe and Audrey asked, "What?"

"A secret compartment, someone forgot to pull a secret string," Anthony said.

"A string? Wow, how Spongebob," Audrey leaned in closer. "What is it?"

"A key. The kind you get at banks, to a safety deposit box and it's got a name attached to it," Anthony peered at the bronze key. "Alice."

* * *

In his ten months of living, he went through his fair share of Fate's reoccurrences in his life, by bringing him back to a world he was supposed to live in, by taking the one man that made something out of him, by bringing him into this apartment with the woman whose heart he had broken and the brother whose soul was essentially much of his own.

But, through all of this, he did fine with the consequences. He went through his self-discovery with help he said he didn't need but became grateful with at the end of the day.

He went through Lincoln's death by picking up the days where the sun shone bright on his head instead of grieving for his loss. He went through his resurrection, his homecoming to the home he never knew by making a kin, a sign of hope in the rubble: his brother.

But, even so, none of these events were in match with calming down his erratic half-sister. The other shit the world had been giving him he got up and fought with strength, courage, sarcasm and numerous pop-culture references but this task had him to use his compassion, a department where he was short on.

Alice was leaning against the wall, her legs propped up against her chest and her hair stuck to her face. She was shivering away from any human touch, especially his. If it wasn't for him, she would've resorted to Daphne, who took the mothering role a little too seriously, showering all of her friends with love and care but, yes, Alice would've went crying to Daphne's lap.

But it was Peter who was crouching next to her, trying to make contact, trying to make her feel like she was wanted. Sure, he had his resentments but he figured that his obligations were what were holding him to the ground with Alice. And the girl just lost her mother; he had a right to calm her down.

"Al..." he said tenderly to her, crouching down to her level.

He placed his head on her elbow, and, for the first time, she didn't shy away from any contact he was giving her, she actually steadied herself and looked at him straight in the eye. Cornflower blue melded with the chocolate brown and suddenly, she spoke softly, the first string of sentences she had uttered in a while, "Why am I crying?"

"Because you lost your mom," Peter sat down on the hardwood floors next to her, crossing his legs and looking at her with undoubted concern.

Alice took a deep breath and leaned back against the wall again and a whole new batch of tears started flowing down her cheeks, silently, with no sobs and incoherent cursing that had went with it before.

They just decorated her cheeks, pale skin and all, before she started talking. "She left me, Peter, just left me on the foot of an orphanage in Riverside, Iowa, and I did fine for 21 years, I got a life, I got adopted, I forgot what I went through," she said, not looking Peter in the face, as if she was accepting her own truth instead of telling her tale to her brother. "So why am I crying for the woman who just abandoned me and never came back for me?"

"Because she's still your mother," Peter said a silent question.

"Because I'm still me," Alice said, finally setting her eyes on his. "And I'm still sorry. For being a burden, because even if she left me, she was still my mother and she still sacrificed her life to support me for six years before she did. She dropped out of high school, didn't go to college, and spent years being a waitress or having odd jobs just to pay the bills." She paused and then said, "And I'm still sorry for what I did to you. The amount of care I have for you doesn't make up for the things I kept from you, the lies I told you. It doesn't make me a good person. Makes me the worst kind, actually."

Peter looked at his hands as if they were stained with unclean blood and thought that he really did want to say it was okay and make all things ok between them, but he couldn't. Because she was right, how she felt about him didn't make up for the things she said or the things she didn't.

He was hoping for an open door so things could be okay, and here it was, she was giving it to him but Peter being Peter, locked the door from the outside, enabling himself to get in. Obligations were one things, being tied down was another, being sucked into a world that wasn't makeshift, wasn't as portable to his taste.

His life was in a fast moving car, he didn't want to make a stop at a gas station too long because, soon, they would run out of options, they'd run out of gas, they'd run out of liveliness. He didn't like the mundane but, sooner or later, he had to learn that he needed to accept the mundane and that it would always be a part of his life, like it or not.

Look at his brother for proof, Sylar wanted to be special, wanted to be outside of the crowd, instead, he sunk into the truth and became another picture in the frame. And he didn't turn out that bad. He was happy for one thing, had a steady girlfriend and two kids he was crazy about, maybe mundane wasn't so bad.

Peter looked at Alice again and said, "Is it okay for me to not say that it's okay and for me to just hug you and go back to how things were?"

Alice nodded with a meek smile and let herself be embraced by her brother and felt a slight kiss on her head of reddish-brown hair. Peter smiled as he went out of the room and was greeted by Elle, who was crossing her arms and asking, "How is she?"

"Just fine, she just needed some time to vent and cry," Peter nodded.

"I'm surprised you _can_ be a vent-erator," Elle smiled. Peter laughed awkwardly and looked down.

"Elle, we need to talk," he said to her.

"Yeah, sure," she said, looking at him with the smile on her face slowly fading away like oblivion. "What's up?"

Peter didn't say anything, just kissed her, hard on the mouth, passionate and fiery, and Elle couldn't catch her breath. When they pulled apart, he didn't need to say anything, she read it in his eyes immediately.

"Why the sudden change of heart?" she asked.

Peter took a sidelong glance to Sylar and Claire in the kitchen, laughing at each other while making afternoon lunch for their family and their guests, while Hannah and Michael looked on, with toddler smiles playing on their faces and Michael holding onto a stuffed animal who Peter knew he christened Mayday, and Hannah flipping the pages of a book.

His brother was happy, and the woman whose heart once belonged to him had finally found her life and with that fact in mind, he confidently said to Elle, without losing any of his former charm yet attaining some of the Peter Petrelli inside of him, "Maybe mundane isn't so bad."

* * *

Quebec, Canada

"We looked the name up," Anthony said, coming into the room with a confident strut about him. "Alice Leigh Adams, she was born 28th January 1985 to Sophia Mare."

"Where?" Audrey asked, her hands numb from holding and twirling the key in her hands.

"Iowa," Anthony answered, sitting next to her and handing the files to her on the bed of Sophia Mare.

They hadn't left the perimeter of the crime scene, they just checked into a hotel close by, just to monitor, and, still, Audrey couldn't let go of the bronze key that was burning a hole through her skin. What did it mean?

"Any trace of the girl?" Audrey asked.

"She died when she was eight, car accident in Riverside, Iowa and the obituary is right… here," Anthony said, ruffling through the files.

"Siblings?" the blonde detective asked, shrugging the death away as if it was nothing.

"Two half-brothers, one living in New York City, the other deceased," Anthony said.

"These people are dropping like flies," Audrey muttered under her breath.

"You haven't heard the craziest thing yet."

"What's that?"

"They share the same father, Daniel Linderman," Anthony looked at her with eyes as big as quarters.

"The casino mob? He has kids?"

"Apparently, it was all hush-hush back in the early 80s, but yeah, he had kids and no one knew about it until now," Anthony said. "Not that it matters anymore. All the money was given out to his wife, who is also dead."

"Damn," Audrey cursed. "So no choice but to give it to the brother, right? Sophia had no siblings, right?"

"Nope, this guy's the only one even remotely related to her, even if he doesn't share the same blood," Anthony said. "So."

"So off to NYC we go," Audrey said bitterly.

* * *

"Are you sure about this?" Sylar asked Claire comfortingly.

"Nathan deserves to know that his little brother has come back to life," the young mother nodded as she smiled gratefully to the ex-serial killer. "And we haven't gotten out of the house since the incident, since everything and I've forgotten how to breathe. It's getting suffocating here and a few hours will do us both some good, not to mention the kids."

"If you say so," Sylar said, taking the young mother in his arms and kissing the top of her head with affection and adoration, an emotion that still seeped through his gruff exterior after all these years.

He had to admit, he had gotten soft over the years but he was still Sylar, and he was much like his brother now, with a vicious tongue, aimed to kill with remarks and consults full of sarcasm and unending. If he had a nickel for every time he heard his friends, or his colleagues, say that he should retreat to the back of his mind and pen the great American novel, he'd be rich.

"I'm sorry you have to put up with Nathan again, but he's my father and the kids' grandfather," Claire said.

"And my worst fan," Sylar nodded.

"He'll get around," the young mother said.

"Yeah, he'll get around to killing me, swell plan," the watchmaker said sarcastically. "Come on, Hannie. Off to grandpa's house we go."

The three year old looked up to her uncle and let herself be carried in his arms while her twin brother was holding Claire's hand, carefully slinging his backpack over his back.

"Alright, we'll be back in a few hours and we already cooked lunch for all of you, enough for third helpings," Claire said to the crowd gathering around the television.

"Thanks, Claire," Matt thanked her gratefully.

Truthfully, Matt was the one man with manners amongst them, and, compared to Peter, he had attained a lot of his good qualities from his former life. She could see how Daphne was lucky to have him. In spite of their differences, down to the very core of their beings, this group fitted well, it balanced, it was a family, an invisible thread amongst them.

"It's fine I'm not going, right?' Peter tilted his head to ask his brother.

"It's fine, despite the fact he's _your_ brother, I can't stand being in the same room as him and I might need the support when he attacks me with his vicious claws," Sylar said.

"Great, thanks," the amnesiac smiled, clapping his hand on his brother's shoulder.

"Anytime," Sylar nodded and both he and Claire were out of the door the next second.

As soon as the couple was out of the apartment and in the corridor, Claire said, "You and Peter seem to be getting along okay."

"More than okay, Claire. Amnesiac or not, absent or not for the last four years, for the last 32 years of my life, he's still my brother," Sylar smiled. "And I like that feeling, it's a nice feeling."

"I bet," Claire nodded. "And what about Alice?"

"Why the sudden interest?" Sylar asked, signaling for a cab to pick them up and send them to the mansion.

Once they were inside, the kids piled on their laps, not even minding about their guardians having a discussion. Hannah was too caught up in one of her new books, and Michael was listening to the radio, tapping his feet on the air.

"I'm just wondering how you're adjusting to all of this, I'm just worried about you, that's all. You're connected to everyone in that room; you're related to Peter and Alice. You killed Matt, you were friends with Daphne and you knew Elle. I need to know how you're adjusting," Claire looked at him concerned.

"I'm adjusting just fine. I've made my amends with Matt and me and Daph are picking things up where we left off, and you don't have to worry about Elle. My relationship with Peter is fine, it doesn't need any tampering with, and I'll work on Alice. I might not know her but she's still family and I deserve to, you know, be family with her," the watchmaker said.

"So everything's fine?" Claire asked for the umpteenth time to her significant other.

"Everything's fine, Claire, trust me," Sylar said confidently and kissing her on the lips.

"Eww!" the kids said simultaneously.

Claire looked out the window and said to her daughter, "We're here!"

They went outside of the car while Sylar stayed behind and paid the cabbie, and Claire tapped on the door. The door opened, revealing Nathan Petrelli with a loose tie and a smile that quickly shaped when he saw his daughter and his grandchildren.

"Surprise!" Claire, Hannah and Michael said simultaneously.

Nathan grinned even wider, until some of his happiness rubbed off him and dropped to the floor when he saw that Sylar came as a guest. The two of them weren't the best of friends, they barely even tolerated each other but they were civil when Claire was in the room and Sylar hoped that Claire was going to be there for him every step of the way.

"Nathan," Sylar nodded to him.

"Sylar, good to see you," Nathan said. Huh, Sylar thought, likely. "Actually, Claire, this isn't really a surprise. With the news circulating we knew you would come sooner or later, I see that it's sooner. Noah's actually here."

"Noah?" Sylar asked.

There was no doubt that Noah was Sylar's favorite out of Claire's dads, since the Company man had forgiven him for his sins, had been okay with him and was the only person alive that called the man Gabriel.

"Come in," Nathan said courteously.

There, sitting in the living room with a newspaper to be entertained with, was Noah Bennet, complete with his horn-rimmed glasses and graying hair. "Noah," Sylar greeted the man.

"Gabriel," Noah said.

He rose from his seat and gave the watchmaker an embrace; it was one of the many that he had given to him as gratitude for saving his daughter. "So I take you guys have heard?" Claire asked.

"That my brother's come back from the dead as an amnesiac and a glorified jerk, yeah we've heard," Nathan said. "Why isn't he here?"

"Because he's different and not coming here just shows that. If he was here, he'd sulk, he wouldn't want to be here," Sylar said.

"How would you know? Maybe he would like it, see his nephews and Heidi," Nathan remarked.

"Because I'm his brother, too," the watchmaker pressed sternly.

"Sylar…" Claire gripped on his shoulder as the kids looked up to their uncle.

"Sylar, come into my office, please. I need to talk to you," Nathan said formally, probably just showing a façade for his daughter and grandchildren.

"Gee, I wonder what for," Sylar muttered under his breath as he followed Nathan's lead.

As soon as the door closed behind them, Nathan asked-no, he bellowed- "What the hell is your problem?"

"You, I think my problem's you," Sylar crossed his arms.

"That mouth, it's despicable, how does Claire keep you handled?"

"For one thing, she's forgiven me, and she makes an effort and she loves me. You are none of that."

"How could Claire forgive you, after what you did to her, what you did to Peter?"

"I made up for it by being there, by being at Peter's death and seeing my brother die right in front of my eyes and being there for her entire pregnancy. Being a good father to the kids, being her family when she was torn and broken, that was how she forgave me. And I can't see why you can't," Sylar spat at him.

"You're lucky I even let you off so easily!" Nathan yelled, his voice vibrating around the room, shaking the situation cold from nerves.

"Let me off _easily?_ You never let me off anything, I'm still hanging!" Sylar raised his voice.

"Is that what you think?"

"Yeah, that's what I think!"

Nathan didn't say a word after that; he just stood there as if a trigger reverberated through him, telling him to stop. Telling him that Sylar was a good guy, that he stayed, when he could've walked out the door the minute he found out Claire was pregnant, he could've strayed from his path but he didn't. But what Nathan did next didn't prove his forgiveness, it proved his stubbornness. The politician just walked out the door and slammed it in Sylar's face.

* * *

Daphne Millbrook was happy. Ever since she found she was pregnant, it had been sort of a chain reaction of sunshine and recollection and reconciliation. She had the nicest, sweetest husband anyone could ever wish for, expecting a baby in less than a month away and, finally, she had reconciled with Sylar.

There had been times where she thought to call, or to tap on his door, and she would know he would immediately take her in his arms. But when times past, it became harder to make contact, it became harder to be friends again; it became tougher for her to reconcile.

There were also times were she thought to tell Matt about Sylar, and leave out the part that he had killed the man in ruthless, cold blood when he died. The speedster paced around the apartment, her feet dragging her to nowhere in particular. She looked at Matt's sprawled body on the couch and thanked God she was so lucky.

True, she was the only one of their team that knew Peter when he was still a Petrelli, still an empath, just wanting to protect his family, the love of his life and future daughter and his friends, and she fought through and through for him. She didn't like seeing the slow, torturous decay of Peter's soul and she did everything she could during his early months to have the guards in solitary provide him everything he needed but she guessed the very solitary was the thing that disabling him from being his former self.

If he was nurtured, if he was taken care of, maybe he wouldn't have turned out this way. Maybe that was why she felt so attached to him, felt so overprotective over him because she wanted him to change but at the same time, like every mother, she accepted him for what he was and merely took care of him and loved him like a good mother would. And sometimes she blamed herself for how he turned out, because she could've done more, she did insult to Peter Petrelli's memory, she let Sylar down, Claire down, and those kids of his he would never put in the effort to know.

Then there was the subject of Sylar, the man who she left in a hurry and without valid reason, just went off into the night like someone who didn't have a life when she knew fully that she did. She had one friend and that could've sent a chain reaction of life for her, they could've moved in together like friends and then when they found their significant others, they still would've been in touch.

Why did she leave? It was a haunting question; it was too much of a mystery to solve because it was psychology, it was her one problem and she was too scared to dig inside herself and see what was wrong. She must've been so wrong because Sylar was perfect, he took care of her and he might have his flaws but so did she. But Daphne could only imagine what life would be like, like that; it was a big what if for her. But she had Matt now, and Daniella, and everything wasn't perfect but it was good enough for her.

The speedster heard a crash somewhere in the apartment. Quickly, she judged the distance of the sound and pointed it to the guest room where Peter and Elle were staying at the moment. Daphne opened the door and saw Peter in some sort of trance.

Oh no. she knew that look, that white on look in his eyes, and the expressionless face on him, more over he was holding a pencil and papers were scattered everywhere in the effort painting the events overhead.

The past few months had Peter painting his past, perhaps his former self telling his present self to remember but, as always, they never meant anything to him, it never meant anything to him. But now, she could clearly see that the papers stained with rough art wasn't the past anymore, it was the future.

Daphne looked from the Peter in the trance to Elle on the bed. The blonde woman had the blankets covering her from chest down, her naked shoulders showing, not to mention the same naked fear playing on her eyes, and the worry showed on her, too.

Both of them didn't know what to do, only to just let Peter be until the tempest slowed and everything would go calm. The sound of another crash made by Peter's attempt to make solid art and Daphne almost distinguished it as a sound of thunder.

* * *

A/N: The last line is homage to Sound of Thunder by Ray Bradbury... a book I desperately want to read but can't find a copy of. Please review!!

-Aly


	7. Outbreak

**A/N:** **This chap seriously kicked my ass through and through. Ok...everyone! I'm not satisfied with the lack of reviews!! **

**Please, please please...all ya'll gotta give me some love here. I'm tearin' out my hair for this story... please??**

**

* * *

**

Chapter Seven

**"Outbreak"**

**One event, one touch, one feel, one listen is all we need to make a chain reaction, to make a catastrophe of proportions unimaginable. It's inevitable, for the lines must be crossed because why else would they have drawn them in the first place?**

Silence crept inside their minds like a wavering ghost, a hovering friend, the eerie glow that was seemed abundant around the apartment. Soon enough, a different feeling joined their minds, the undisputed, inevitable feeling of undoubted fear. Right now, it was unwavering and transfixed, laced with concern and worry, and shared among the four people looking at the sight of the man in front of them.

Peter Michaelson had been roaming around for two hours, painting on papers and various other surfaces of the apartment. Luckily, his team mates had set up obstacles to prevent the amnesiac from drawing any further on the white-washed walls of the familial apartment. Everyone in the room had no doubt, experienced fear before.

Elle felt it when she was five, watching her mother seize in front of her in her hospital bed, thinking that it was all her fault. Matt had it wafted around him when he first woke up from afterlife, his brain intact but he could barely walk or talk the first few days. A wave of it hit Daphne when she found out she was pregnant, all the different scenarios, the inevitable what ifs that could happen. It throbbed in Alice's mind when her mother left her.

But, now, the feeling was simultaneous, as all four of them watched Peter in his death-like trance, with his usually warm, brown eyes transformed into a milky, almost eerie white, that never looked directly into anyone else's, and the steady, stoic composition he had been in for thirty minutes. They watched him in anticipation for some sort of indication he would wake up from his state, but, in the mean time, their eyes observed the destruction Peter had played on the apartment belonging to Sylar and Claire.

Dozens of papers were scattered about, a product of his prophetic drawing, and the documents probably reached a hundred, the way everywhere they looked, there was some parts it. Paint and art supplies were strewn, on the floor, on the tables, on the bed in the guest room, so much so that it seemed like child's play, that an infant had caused this much mess in the home. They had no idea what to say to Sylar and Claire, that was, except the truth.

Elle was sitting on the living room couch, her elbows propped up on the coffee table, and she could've sworn that throughout this entire ordeal, Peter hadn't breathed. His chest was flat; it never rose or fell out of breath. But she could see it now, her blue orbs observing the slow incline of life inserting itself back into Peter Michaelson's lungs.

He then took a huge gasp of air and coughed out air and sudden water from his system, as though he had been drowning instead. Matt immediately rushed to his side, playing the part as Peter's best friend, and it took Peter minutes to recollect and set his brown eyes to the right side.

"What the fuck happened here?" he asked.

"Believe it or not, handsome, you did this," Elle smirked.

Matt helped him up to the couch, where his head lolled to the side for a moment before saying, "What the hell are we gonna tell Sylar? Hell, I don't even know what happened. What happened, exactly?"

"Don't bother tomorrow's questions today, boyo," Matt clapped his hand on Peter's shoulder.

Keys jingled and the sound vibrated through Peter, either it was the nerves of his brother finding his own apartment a mess, or it was the super-hearing he picked up from Sylar that was becoming a much more annoying trait that the world made it out to be. Soon enough, the door opened, revealing a sympathetically-smiley face of Claire Petrelli and a surly-looking Sylar, each of them with three-year-old toddlers on their hands, tugging on the each of their sleeves.

They turned and Peter saw the metamorphosis playing on their faces. Sylar's face had already been set on a not-so-sunny disposition, but his features just hardened and his brown eyes widened while Claire just opened her mouth.

"Mommy, did Peter have a party?" Michael asked his mother.

"No idea, why don't you ask," Claire said, then threw Peter one of those _what-just-happened-here-that-I-am-completely-oblivious-to_ looks.

"Well, buddy, see, I don't know what happened here myself, I'll be sure to tell you when I know, but, it was definitely not a party, otherwise you would've been invited," Peter said, amusingly to Michael.

"Can I help cleaning up?" Hannah piped up. She was one cheery kid, that was for sure.

"Sure, Hannie, knock yourself out," Peter shrugged.

Sylar looked up to his brother; his eyes back to his normal size and asked, "What-?"

"I don't know myself, bro; we're still waiting for the briefing. But what I know is that I blacked out and, well, I did this," Peter shrugged.

Sylar sighed, and then looked at his girlfriend who looked as confused as Peter, and rubbed his temples, muttering, "Isaac. You must have absorbed his power from me."

"Meaning what, exactly?" the amnesiac asked.

"Isaac Mendez had the ability to paint the future, prophetic visions, if you may, and I killed him to get his power. You usually absorb powers without intending to, causing, well, this," Sylar waved his hand over the apartment.

"Huh," Peter pondered, his brown eyes fixed on his brother's.

Daphne came into their discussion, having finished cleaning up and gathering the papers as evidence. The blonde soon-to-be mother had with her a knapsack she brought from Crestblade, and pulled out sheet after sheet of papers. Peter recognized them as the drawings he drew in his sleep then found in the morning, crumpled, confusing and incoherent.

"Listen, guys, Peter's been drawing these for months, about three months after his resurrection," Daphne said, distributing them between the watchmaker and the immortal healer.

"It's the past," Sylar said.

"This is us," Claire saying, holding up a picture of a blonde girl and dark-haired man

"And this…" her voice petered out as she saw a familiar face smiling at her from the sheet of paper, a remnant of their tragic past, of her tragic end. Hannah, with her dark hair and her green eyes, the girl who saved more lives that she ever would've fathomed, and the same girl that was three years old at the time and would grow up to be such a stunning young woman. Claire could only hope that this Hannah would meet a more suitable end.

"Natasha, Flint and Knox, the Bangkok building," Sylar said, flipping through the pages vigorously. "This is everything that happened to us, to Peter. There are even childhood pictures, and Nathan. This is everything Peter forgot."

"Will you guys please stop talking about me like I'm not here?" Peter waved a hand to get acknowledgement.

Claire drew an apologetic nod, before Peter continued with saying, or, rather, asking, "So this is, this was, my life? Even the two babies in front of the house, with the man and woman?"

"That's us," Sylar clarified.

"So this means I _do_ remember," Peter tilted his head, "sorta kinda?"

"Sorta kinda," Daphne nodded. "A part of you still remembers and it's doing everything to have you to remember, too."

"Whoa," Peter said, ruffling his hair in bewilderment.

There was a knock on the door, and everyone turned in their spot, their heads craning, wondering who the hell would be at the door. Perhaps it would be one of Peter's old friends, much to the current Peter's dismay, he had enough of people asking him who he was, and he thought Molly Walker would've distributed the news.

Claire offered to get the door and then it revealed a two people. A young man, no more than 25 and a blonde woman, both of them were donning suits, like they worked for the government, or, at least, the police. The blonde looked familiar to Claire and the regenerator searched the face for signs of the past then she caught it: it was Agent Hanson.

The woman who questioned her at Homecoming, after Jackie's death and had been…Matt's partner, she was standing at the door way, holding up a badge, stating she was with the FBI, still. "Good afternoon, miss, we're looking for Gabriel Gray?" she asked.

Peter set a glare to his brother, cocking his head, as if it was an inaudible question of _what did you do, Sylar?_ But the watchmaker merely shrugged, defending himself, knowing full well that he hadn't done anything, he hadn't done anything for the past four years that would raise an eyebrow or cause someone to barf out at his crimes. Damn, he hadn't even stolen a keychain, why would the police be on to him?

But, nonetheless, the man put on a glorified smile and said, "Hi, I'm Gabriel." Little did he know he was staring directly into the face of the woman he had pinned against the wall with his most used ability: telekinesis. Too much time had passed, anyway.

* * *

There was little Matt Parkman could comprehend about the situation. Audrey Hanson was investigating Alice's mother's death, that he knew, and that she knew Matt once upon a lifetime, when he was still alive for the first time and when he was in the FBI, that he knew, too. But what he didn't understand, or comprehend, or wrap his mind around was that she still _cared._

If she was Peter's friend, that would be understandable, because it seemed that Peter was the anchor that kept all his friends on the ground, but this was Matt, the guy who was extremely humble and he would fine and happy if he lived his life in oblivion, and Audrey Hanson still cared. The telepath sat across her, his hands entwined together on the table as the two of them, Audrey and the young man introduced as the striving detective from Quebec Anthony, were briefed in a short matter of time with the facts that Matt already knew full well and were spinning his head with.

Peter was hovering over him, cursing and hovering, muttering, "Great. Suits that know us."

"Pete, just shut it," Matt snapped at him.

Matt was never aggressive to Peter, never even shown an ounce of anger to the man that his wife considered a son, a part of their tightly-knitted family but Matt certainly had his reasons for this occasion. For days, both of them had been hurdled into this world where everyone knew Peter, everyone loved Peter, and Matt had been happy. That was, until he realized that Peter was shooting down everyone that was presented to him, while he himself would've gladly embraced the chance for his past.

"We were hunting down Sylar before you fled cross country to New York City, the man who ended up killing you," Audrey said, glaring Sylar down.

"No need to hold a grudge, Agent Hanson, I'm a changed man," the watchmaker said, calmly. "Look around, a serial killer wouldn't possibly hold himself in an environment like this, i would've bolted and ran, but, see, I'm still here."

"Prove it," the blonde detective spat at him.

"Isn't there enough evidence to support me? I have a girlfriend who's an immortal healer and two kids, three and well, do you think the old me would've stayed? Nah, I would've just killed Claire and left the kids alone," Sylar said, leaning in his seat.

For a man who had been convicted of dozens of crimes spanning the states, he was oddly calm, perhaps he knew that no matter what, even if they caught up with him, they wouldn't catch him and put him away. Four years of retribution might not seem like repayment of a year of serial killings for the cops, but it was enough for Sylar.

"You said you wanted to see me, why's that?" Sylar asked.

"Well, we were actually looking for Alice, but she showed up dead on the database and you're her last living kin, which it seems is also a lie," Anthony looked at the two siblings who were presumed dead by the world.

Alice, seeing the confused looks on her comrades, explained, "When Lincoln adopted me, any trace of me was wiped out, I was dead. He wanted to protect me." She then looked at Anthony and asked, "Why were you looking for me?"

"This," Anthony pulled out something from his brown suit, a key, shining with rusted bronze of the years.

Alice took it from his hands, and felt it in her palms. Something triggered inside her, for this was the last evidence her mother had left her, from 21 years of abandonment, her mother gave her a key. She didn't know whether she should be flattered or insulted by the gesture from her mother's grave. The jumper twirled it through her fingers, getting used to the feel of it, wondering what door it opened.

"Can I see that?" Sylar asked her, breaking her out of her silence.

She nodded solemnly and watched as her brother inspected the key closer, peering his brown eyes to it, like a scientist might to a microscopic object. He took out his phone, and, with the camera built in it, he snapped pictures of the key from every angle.

"Why'd you do that?" Alice asked.

"To send to our resident boy genius," Sylar smiled and sent the pictures directly to Micah Sanders' phone.

Not two minutes later, the computer in Sylar and Claire's living beeped on, its screen glowing with information. Claire quickly sat down on the swivel chair and opened an email by Micah.

"The key is from the National Bank. It was hard to differentiate where from, but I found that it's from the New York branch," the regenerator read aloud.

"That's an hour from here," Alice said, looking down at the key in her hands.

"So what are you gonna do about it?" Peter stood in front of her. "Are you gonna go?"

"Yeah," Alice said, slowly, looking up to her comrades. "But I'm not going alone. You and Matt are going with me."

This went against Peter's wishes but he knew he couldn't say no, because Alice just lost her mother and, no matter how much of an asshole he was, he should go. Besides no one knew just how fragile the situation was, and one soft pull on the thread could set Alice off. Matt, on the other hand, just nodded.

"Fine," Peter sighed. Alice tucked in the key inside her jeans pocket and put both of her hands on the men, ready to teleport. Before they disappeared, she could hear a chuckling Peter say, "Beam us up, Scotty."

* * *

The bank, from the outside, was a beauty. A looming building, of shining mirrors, of painted walls of cerulean and white, with trees and trees decorating the atmosphere outside, it was the friendly neighborhood bank. Men and women in suits came in and out of the building, while civilians did the same through the sliding doors.

A car parked outside was observing its surroundings, judging when was the right time to get out of the car and walk through those doors. The car's inhabits were a redheaded girl, most of her hair hidden in a baseball cap and a blonde boy, both of them barely even reaching the legal drinking age.

"What are we waiting for?" the boy asked.

"Riser, just shut it," Dawn snapped. She looked at her watch, and then deemed it was safe enough to go. "Let's go, eager."

The two of them stepped out of the car and went inside the bank. Almost immediately, they went to counter number 6, where a young woman was tapping in codes into the database.

"How may I help you?" the woman asked.

"We're looking for a cow in the river," Riser said calmly. The woman's eyes lit up, and widened her range immediately. The woman was a Chinese beauty, her brown eyes that were associated with the Knights, and she smiled.

"Roger," she called her partner. "Man the counter, please? I have to deal with these two." Roger nodded obediently and took the next customers off the young woman's hands as she directed Dawn and Riser to the left of the bank.

"I was waiting for acknowledgement," the young woman said, leading them into a room, one of those staff rooms, where people took a break, but, now, it was empty. The windows opened up to the world, and there was fresh coffee on the tables, which Riser was salivating for. There were pros to their road trips, but the major con had got to be that food – _good_ food- was scarce for them.

"The raid was successful, as we're told," Dawn said, sitting down on one of the chairs.

"I got that news, too," the young woman said, serving both of them the coffee.

"What are your names? I haven't been contacted in so long; it seems they've forgotten about me."

"Nah, the Knights never forget their own," Riser said, leaning in his seat. "I'm Riser, the girl's Dawn. Numbers 6 and 9 at your service."

"Charmaine Cho, number 25," the woman introduced herself.

"I take you know about the visitors coming around today?" Dawn asked Charmaine.

"I've been briefed, yes," the Chinese woman nodded.

"And back up?" Riser asked.

"All ready to go at the sighting," Charmaine said.

"How many?"

"15 at the most, most of them are heirs."

"Well, then," Riser said. "I hope you're ready for a fight."

* * *

It was like a dungeon, of shining metal and bolts and money and valuables. Peter, Matt and Alice were on one of the bank's lower grounds, after being greeted by a pretty, petite Chinese girl at the counter, to whom Alice had given the key to for recognition. The hallway was paved with marble tiles, Peter's feet glided on the surface as his brown eyes trailed on the many safes piled up one against the other.

The room at the end of the hallway contained two or three people, opening, what it seemed, to be contents of their own safes. The room was glass-paned which offered virtually no privacy, perhaps it was extra precaution, making sure none of the bank's clients were harboring illegal drugs or severed heads in their polished, shiny safes.

The man guiding was elderly, certainly one of the veterans of the bank, with a wrinkled suit and a face to match. He didn't smile; he was one of those unresponsive employees whose life only depended of their jobs. The nametag that plagued the left lapel of his suit proclaimed his name was Steve, an appropriate name for him. They reached the middle of the hallway, where Steve stopped and nudged at Alice, whose fingers were still twirling on the key, indicating it was this case, this safe amongst all the others that Sophia Mare had left behind for her daughter.

Peter's sister-he still had trouble grasping that concept-walked in front of him and while she stuck the key in the hole, the amnesiac glanced his best friend beside him. Matt gave him a weak smile playing on his lips, not knowing what was inside and how it would unravel the young woman in front of them. Steve left them alone in their own company, his presence leaving the room, his footsteps away from them. Out from the safe, Alice pulled out a box, one of those old toy boxes from childhoods knitted with love and oatmeal cookies.

"Come on," she said, nudging to the back room that had vacated since they opened the safe.

The room was cold, in much contrast to the outside world that was heating up from both global warming and just plain summer love. Peter sat on one of the chairs available, a plastic seat which he leaned into, while Matt took a chair and moved it so he was sitting next to Alice and Peter across. The amnesiac grazed Alice's knee in an adoring manner, he knew he couldn't project his feelings that well in words but he knew how to work in body language and right now, he felt anything Alice needed was some form of contact.

One by one, the jumper began to clear out the content of the box. A bunch of pictures framed in brown, of a young girl of seventeen, holding a girl wrapped up in a pink blanket like a croissant, and the same girl, older now, hardened by the years of being a teenage mom, with a toddler in her arms in a cluttered apartment. Silently, suddenly, Alice began to cry, tears streaming down her ivory cheeks, a sign of maybe nostalgia, and grief and mourning, and the hold Peter had on her became more and more insistent, rubbing on the skin covered in her jeans.

"She kept in contact," she suddenly said.

"What?" Matt asked.

"This," Alice pulled out a figurine, the face hardened and dusty and the clothes on the doll torn and tattered from the years of not taking care of it.

"What about it?" Peter asked.

"You gave it to me for my tenth birthday, four years after my mom left me. I remember losing it when I was, like, thirteen, but why would she have it?" Alice slurred, her words pondering as much as her mind was about the situation. In her mind, memories reeled like a black and white film, that day at the park with Peter, and Lincoln taking her away from him, the first bit of normalcy she had tasted since she was six. Before they had opened the safe, she was fingering the bronze key, now it seemed her hands were attached on this doll, her fingers rubbing the material of the doll's clothes.

"Maybe Lincoln gave it to her?" Matt asked.

"It doesn't fit, why would…" Alice's voice petered out.

Then she began scouring the box, pulling out everything of her childhood, until she reached the very bottom of the box, a brown file, stamped on it, saying it was evidence. Alice laid it out on the table before them and Peter hovered over her, seeing what was inside.

"This file, it's about the Knights," Matt said, his fingers on the same symbol that arrived with the damned glowing letter.

News articles and pictures with eyes blocked out with a black box decorated the file, and fell out constantly, as Alice tried to find some sort of evidence it. "'Nurse from India strangled and left with a mysterious symbol that has authorities baffled'," Alice read from a news article. The picture at the side of it was worn out, but it was in good enough shape to make out that the symbol was the Knights' infamous one.

"'Teenagers from Washington found dead in a nearby park'," Peter read the next one. Once again, the picture showed the two teenagers lying side by side, with a recognizable sign on both of their stomachs.

"What is this all about?" Matt asked, confused.

"My mom was investigating about the Knights. All of these people were doing the same, I know I've heard the name Fred Miller before, he was one of the kids that were killed in D.C. Lincoln told me he wanted to stick it to the man and a week later, he shows up dead. It's not a coincidence," Alice said.

"What does that mean?" Peter crossed his arms.

"It means that my mom didn't leave me because she didn't care about me, it was because she cared about me too much," the jumper looked up to her half-brother. "These people were doing the same thing my mom was doing and they ended up dead. She was trying to protect me."

"If she was trying to protect you when you were a kid, why did she give you this? The Knights could send a wild goose chase for you for this, the information you have," Peter said.

"Maybe she thought we'd find out more," Alice gave a weak smile.

* * *

Charmaine Cho was a bright woman, she certainly had a future in front of her, a road splayed in front of her eyes, even if it is laced with gray areas dipped in turpentine. But she knew the tactics of her job inside and out, she memorized the rules, burned it into her brain, because she grew up with this responsibility, she was an heir and she wasn't going disappoint her predecessor.

"They're out," she muttered into her phone.

The two words set the bank into an unseen, calm frenzy. Every inch of the floor was monitored by a person associated with the Knights, and, suddenly, everything moved. One person moved, and it was like a chain reaction for the whole floor, inch by inch, they littered through, waiting for the elevator door to chime open so that they could nail their targets.

Truthfully, Charmaine was a little doubtful about the Knights' way to handle this particular case, sure, she hadn't been briefed fully, she was not one of the head honchos of the group but she put together what she knew and what she heard about and it ultimately ended up in the bin. They couldn't have possibly thought they were handling this right, letting the girl actually get the information was a bit sloppy. They were the Knights, they've been doing the same job over and over for a hundred years, not like the Company, which sunk under pressure three years ago, and they didn't have a chance to screw up.

The world was in the imbalance in their eyes, she knew that and God knew every other Knights out there knew, but she wasn't all sure she had all the faith in the world to put in their hands. She straightened up her position, her back more upright, no one could possibly notice her affiliation to the moving people on the floor.

Finally, the elevator door opened, revealing the band of three, the girl squished in the middle of the two, strong men and, as expected, and the folder in the girl's arms. Charmaine triggered at the sight and silently said, in her mind, "Showtime…"

Alice wasn't dumb, she certainly wasn't Einstein by a long shot but she wasn't an ape. And she knew, just when she stepped onto the main floor of the bank, where counters were open and clients were asking, something was up. There was nothing out of the ordinary to indicate just so, but she knew something was wrong; something was out of the ordinary. Perhaps it was an instinct, or just all those years working under Lincoln's wing in Crestblade, all she knew was that all three of them weren't safe.

"Hold on to me," she said to her friends.

"What?" Matt asked.

"Hold on to me, we need to go," Alice merely said, barely even an explanation to the telepath's question.

But before Matt could even consider taking Alice seriously, something took him down. Or, say, someone. And this just blew the whole place into catastrophe, men and women held up guns, that they kept under their incognito uniforms, and all of them wore the similar face: shoot to kill, an expression Alice knew all too well.

A man, with curly hair, about in his forties, lunged for Alice and the file she kept securely in her arms. Peter protected her by shooting the man with one of Elle's electric balls, straight in the chest, and then the man fell to the floor in death. The bank was in chaos, everyone was running from the scene, out of the doors, the employees screaming and holding up their hands as if it was a normal arrest that was staging in front of them, not what it really was.

"Ready?" Peter asked his sister, while she securely put the folder in a bag in the corner and slung in behind her back.

"As I'll ever be," she nodded.

The opposing team charged at them, if this was any other situation, it would put a laugh on Peter's face, the way they were running towards them, but this was fight, and, by damn, he was kick every ass that they encountered. Matt was being held up against the wall by the same person who knocked him to the floor, but the telepath had the upper hand as he punched the person repeatedly until his nose was broken and blood was splattered, on both of their faces.

It was admitted victory when the man dropped to the floor, limp. Matt was watching the scene, and thanked God he had great partners in fighting. Alice was disappearing every two seconds and taking every person that was dumb enough to shit with them. Peter, on the other hand, was having a much more epic battle than his sister was, he was taking down three people at once and Matt knew that no matter how strong his best friend wanted to be, he still didn't have the will.

"Need a hand?" the telepath asked, as he punched one man with the dishwasher blonde hair through the gut. The man got back up from the floor, and Matt instantly knew he was one of them. How? Easy, the man had hands made of ice like Bobby freakin' Drake. Matt groaned as the man's ice hand pummeled through him, hitting him, hit after hit on the face. Not only was he cold, his face was turning purple and green all over like a sick and twisted version of a kid's drawing.

"Get the fuck off of him!" Peter yelled at the man and fired two blue balls at the man's hands that melted and caused the man to scream in agony.

Those blue balls weren't Elle, no, they were rounder, more powerful, Matt had never seen anyone with a power like that…where did Peter absorb that from? It seemed that the new information was nothing when two other people came running towards the two of them. It was quite comical to the number of people attacking them, it was like they kept multiplying and doubling, all for the sake of taking the three of them down.

But it seemed like already two of them was nearing that point. Alice was on the other side of the bank, near the entrance of the bank and she was on the floor, being kicked mercilessly by two men, like a teenage girl by the side of the road. Alice was spitting out blood right about then, but she kept fighting back, she kept punching the men as hard as she could, as high as she could, just so that they would admit defeat to her. Matt was sure that they were after the file she had discovered but it seemed like the two men were just enjoying killing her with every slow, torturous kick and blow.

Peter, on the other hand was taking every hit from the men he had to, but he fought back harder with every ounce of power left in him. his face was decorated with blood, the warmth flowing down his chin, onto his chest, splattering over him, over them, while Matt had the advantage when his challenger was under his mercy while both of his friends were being charged around like dogs. Peter was dying. The people over him were snickering and smirking once the amnesiac fell to the floor, dead.

Once the man Matt had under his grip was successfully unconscious, he ran to his friend's aide. To get the two people hovering over Peter to get lost, Matt messed with their brains and, soon, they were falling to floor. "Come on, Pete, wake up," Matt said, shaking his best friend. Not five seconds later, Peter Michaelson blew a new breath and his eyes trailed the situation, finally, his brown eyes landed on Alice.

"Fuck," he cursed as he got up and charged to the attackers.

Peter didn't say anything, didn't blow any demeaning, vulgar curse words at the men, he just attacked out of brutality. His hands turned into a metal armor, which was much stronger than the coat of his skin, and the job was done, though Alice lay limp on the floor, blood everywhere, she didn't have the super healing powers Peter did.

Again, Matt was taken by the question of whose power Peter had displayed just then, he had been with Peter every step of his life and he didn't know anyone that had that ability, but the question proved not a priority. Peter picked Alice up and carried the unconscious girl in his arms, made sure that her knapsack still contained the file, and said to Matt, "Hold on to me."

Before Matt knew it, the chaos at the bank, the bodies lying on the floor, the screams that echoed on every surface of the walls, were gone and, once again, he was enveloped in serenity.

* * *

A/N: Whoot!!! Review!

-Aly


	8. Tampered Laws

**A/N: I like this chap a litte bit... The Syelle was okay, but I brought back some of the old gang, to get the feel of homeliness and just plain fear. **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

Chapter Eight

"**Tampered Laws"**

**The laws, the rules, are not enough to keep them hold. Sometimes they just need to tamper with them, they need to break it to break through. **

"Oh my God," was what Claire first thought of to say when Matt, Peter and Alice materialized in their living after going to the bank.

All three of them had their fair share of blood on them, splattered on their clothes, running from their noses down to their chins and their eyes bloodshot from, what seemed a battle. The most hurt was, no doubt, Alice, whose eyes were closed in her unconscious sleep, and, from the amount of blood she lost, she really needed Claire's. When Peter crashed down, Elle was there to catch him before he fell to floor out of exhaustion.

Something inside Claire tingled at the gesture, but shrugged it away as protectiveness that, guessed, never went away with Peter's death. Elle had all the right in the world to be by Peter's aide, just as she had for Sylar. Daphne was brushing off the blood on Matt's face with a towel, and Claire could hear the gentle, shushing sounds she emitted in a slow, comforting gesture towards her husband. Audrey and Anthony stood in the kitchen, out of place, not even caring about the situation taking outside their comfort zone.

"Come on," Sylar snapped her out of her thoughts and observation, nudging her to take one side of the unconscious Alice and put her in the bedroom.

They laid her on the vacant bed, and saw from the window that evening was claiming the day slowly and beautifully. Sylar got out the syringe kit Mohinder had given in case of emergencies such as these from under the bed. Claire took out her arm willingly as Sylar plunged the needle into her, taking in some of her essence without a word. They'd done this so many times before, it had become mundane, just to lose a few scars and regain a life potentially lost.

Claire slumped onto a chair at the corner of the room as Sylar injected Claire's blood into Alice, seeing immediately the change, all the scars decorating the young woman's face were gone, only blood spots tainting her skin. Sylar saw his girlfriend in the chair and walked towards her, sitting down on the floor opposite her, his hands on her thighs. Her green eyes were glassy somewhat, not focusing thoroughly.

"What are you thinking about?" Sylar asked her.

"Nothing you should worry about," Claire gave a meek smile to the man who took care of her for four years. Through all his retribution, she had forgotten the identity behind his name, the man in the long black coat, chasing and hunting, never stopping, never slowing down like a highway.

"I've been thinking," Sylar said quietly, craning his neck to the door as an extra measure to make sure no one was listening. "Maybe we should tell Peter about the kids."

"No," Claire merely said.

"But he deserves to know," the watchmaker-slash-librarian defended his brother.

"No," Claire said more insistently. "Look at him, Sy, he's not ready. To have any part in this family besides being your brother, he's not ready to know he's got kids. If he's an ounce of the man he was before, he'd regret it for sure, and probably sulk around like a phantom or he's not the man before and he won't care. Either way, it's giving our kids false hope."

Sylar tingled at her words of 'our kids', knowing full well that they'd never be his, not fully, always Uncle Sylar instead of Daddy. "I'm sure he's not gonna be like that fulltime, Claire, when the time is right, maybe…" Sylar said.

"Maybe," Claire nodded, getting up from her seat, pulling Sylar up in the process.

"Hey," Sylar gripped her arm. "Don't worry."

"I'll try not to," Claire kissed him, slowly, gently.

The people in the living room looked ready to give out information about what happened. Peter's healing patched up his own skin, while Matt didn't have a lot of injuries in the first place, though tints of blood were still stuck on his face. On the coffee table were bits and pieces of documents, news articles cut out, strewn about in no particular manner. Audrey and Anthony took liberties on the spare couch, sitting next to each other, eyes on the evidence before them.

"What's up?" Claire asked.

"We found this in Alice's mother's safe," Matt said.

"The Knights," Elle traced the symbol on the front page of the brown, faded file. Bit by bit, they peeled off the layers of the mystery that were the Knights, every once in a while, revising back on the glowing letter, for clues and future references.

"There are profiles, dossiers of people, some with complete information and some with just numbers and tags," Audrey observed, unraveling the profiles slowly.

"Profiles for 31 people," Peter said. "31 people only? There have got to be at least 15 in the bank that attacked us, and 16 others? That can't be right, for an organization this powerful, to charge these attacks on these people, on Sophia, there's got to be at least a hundred. How could they possibly do all this and still get away with it? Do you think this isn't complete? Maybe some of these people are missing from this?"

Sylar's eyes were glazing on the letter, and looked up with his face telling of more clues, something that was bursting from his brain and edging on the tip of his tongue. Even though Peter only knew his brother for a few days, he knew what that expression meant, maybe because he used it a few times himself, the way his eyebrows knitted together in concentration but his eyes seemed calm as the sea.

"What?" the amnesiac asked his brother.

"It's not complete, but they're not missing dozens, they're only missing one," Sylar said.

"What?" Elle asked, incredulous, her mind spinning with the same questions Peter had voiced before. A small amount of people like 32 couldn't possibly be accounted for all the destruction they've played on people. "How do you figure?"

"Agent Hanson, if you would pass the pictures from the crime scene?" Sylar asked and the blonde detective immediately handed the photos, that landed in Sylar's palms. He held up one picture, a zoomed one of the bloody wall in Sophia Mare's apartment, the one that showed the Knights symbol and the number 23.

"So?" Peter asked.

"Our last away, an opposition enigma we call our own," Sylar read from the letter.

"The 23 Enigma," Anthony muttered.

"Exactly," the watchmaker nodded to the young detective. "Opposition enigma equals 32. The opposite of 23 is 32."

"Damn," Peter cursed under his breath.

"Any ideas why they come out _now_? Why'd they attack us? What are they hiding?" Matt asked.

"I have no idea," Sylar shrugged. "But at least we've got tabs on them. That's gotta mean something, right?" Anthony asked. "Yeah, that means," Elle gave a sidelong glance to Peter, who answered, with an exasperated sigh, "Mission."

* * *

Mohinder Suresh wasn't a particular busy man, sure he had his work, and his son and daughter to take care of, but, at the end of the day, he was always at the hospital by his wife's bedside. No matter how tired he was, he was always there. Nurses smiled apologetically at him and doctors patted him on the shoulder for his determination and his faith that somehow, someway, Mia would wake up and smile like she always did.

She'd been this way for weeks, ever since that car crash that pummeled her to the ground. They were about to take Joshua home. Then came the subject of his son, the blanket of joy, a mere year old, with curly hair, much his own, and a face and tenderness that he inherited from his mother. Ever since the accident, he hadn't been paying that much attention to him, but he knew he should, he knew he could, if only he could out from under his misery. His wife wasn't dead, she was just sleeping, and Mohinder was naïve enough to believe that.

Molly had been a trooper for the past few weeks, managing to take care of her brother and the two other kids she'd been assigned to baby-sit for easy money, and still have time with her family and boyfriend. If it wasn't for her, everything would've fallen apart easily like a loose thread.

"Hey," someone greeted him. Mohinder looked up to see a blonde woman, leaning against the doorway, smile on her face and a Tupperware of food in her hands.

"Niki," Mohinder greeted her, as she pulled a chair to sit next to him. "What're you doing here?"

"Just thought I'd visit. I made some mac and cheese, I know how horrible hospital food is," Niki smiled.

"Thank you, but you didn't need to," the geneticist said.

"But I wanted to," Niki insisted, putting the container on the bedside table. She straightened up in her seat to see Mia better, the same unruly hair, the same untouched, flawless skin, the same speedster everyone knew and loved and asked, "How is she?"

"The doctors say she's stable but I don't know what to believe anymore," Mohinder said.

"She'll be fine, all of us are praying for her," Niki gripped comfortingly on Mohinder's shoulder. "And, uh, I take it you've heard about Peter?"

"Yes," the Indian man nodded.

"It's a miracle," Niki said.

"Or God's intervention."

"Why do you have to say that? It's a miracle, Mo, through and through, you just need some faith in the situation. Everything's gonna get better, Peter, Mia, your kids. Everything's gonna get better."

"Faith is slipping out my hands quickly, Niki. I find it hard to hold on to anything," Mohinder said, somberly.

"You need to hold on to something. Joshua needs stability," the blonde mother said.

"He needs his mother," Mohinder said, his eyes stuck on his wife.

"He'll get her, but, for now, he's got you," Niki said. "Listen, I've got to go, but just promise me that you'll make the effort. Maybe everything's a blessing in disguise, Peter's resurrection, everything. We'll get our family together again. Soon."

* * *

As expected, Peter couldn't find one bottle of alcohol in the Petrelli-Gray residence. People like Sylar and Claire never retreated to booze for problems, they probably cut themselves just to see their wounds heal again and again or fling inanimate objects across the room. Granted, Peter could do that, too, but alcohol made him lose his inhibitions and he seriously didn't need them right now.

"In the bottom cupboard, behind the wok," Sylar's voice echoed in the kitchen.

"What?" Peter asked.

"The booze, in the bottom cupboard, behind the wok," the watchmaker said.

Peter kneeled down and itched for a bottle of happiness and reached it, felt it graze the tip of his thumb in the cupboard. He pulled it out, as his brother got out two glasses from the top shelf. Peter sat himself next to Sylar as he poured the drink gently, slow enough to not leave incriminating evidence on the table.

"Cheers," Peter tipped his glass and Sylar repeated the motion and drank the glass clean. "I seriously cannot imagine you as the guy that drinks," the amnesiac noted.

"Well, I'm not. Believe or not, this is Claire's stash. I've never been truly drunk in my entire life," Sylar said, alcohol burning his throat.

"Well, that's something to work on," Peter chuckled.

"So, mission, huh?" Sylar asked, asking for another glass.

"Truthfully, I'm getting tired of it. I can't deal with the Knights right now, I just want to get as stoned as possible and just be oblivious," Peter said.

"But someone's gotta go," Sylar pointed out.

"I think Elle's going."

"Do you really think she can handle it alone?"

"Why? Are you interested in going?"

"Nah, I wouldn't be any good at it," Sylar shook his head.

"You could try, Sy. From the sounds of it, the Knights aren't gonna leave us alone and we've got the folder, which means we're on their blacklist. Maybe it would do you some good to get out, face the world, carpe diem and other shit they tell you in motivational programs," Peter said. "Like you said, _someone's_ gotta go."

Sylar smiled at his brother, a real smile, not wrought with sarcasm or concern or whatever else that had been playing in his head for the past few days. Having this mission handed to him, it was like having his brother's acceptance, which made Sylar giddy like a ten year old. Some part of that still shunned that sort of head-in-the-clouds behavior, and he sorely blamed that being with kids too long.

The persona that annoyed the hell out of Daphne was in there, somewhere, the same man that called her Deer condescendingly and the man who killed was still there. He wondered if he missed his old persona, the one engineered much like Peter's current one-it was God's joke on both brothers- and, he concluded, he was just fine.

"Come on," Peter nudged towards the living room, where everybody was crowded. Their backs were hunched and eyes were glued to the folder.

"Whaddup?" Peter asked.

"One of the Knights owns a club in Toronto, and I think that's the best lead we've got, the others don't have a permanent address or anything," Matt explained.

"So, mission is to go inside, and tab them, see or hear anything out of the ordinary," Audrey clarified.

"Cool, so I get to be the Bond girl in this, who's my International Man of Mystery?" Elle asked, a smirk playing on her lips.

"Sylar," Peter answered. "He needs to see the world, and my brother deserves more than he's been given. He's got a ton of abilities and he could be useful."

"Not to distrust your opinion, or offend you, Sylar, but, really? Sylar's not the type of guy known skulk around midnight clubs and get high off crack, he'll stick out like a sore thumb in there," Elle said.

Peter hunched his back, so that his face reached the tip of her nose and said, as if a silent threat, "I guess that's your job now, isn't it?" before kissing her ardently for all to see.

* * *

The club smelled like sweat and sin, the alcohol wafting around them like an unmistakable stench. it had a slight bounce to it, as the techno music blasted through the stereo, shaking everyone's drinks of martini and left the people on the dancing floor intoxicated. The blinking lights almost blinded the two of them, but, fortunately, it kept them away from raised eyebrows and bumping into unsuspecting victims.

No one even looked at their direction, the two people, a blonde woman and a dark-haired man, standing together, awkward in a darkly-lit corner made for late night trysts. "Huh, that was close," Elle sighed.

Peter had teleported them in, so they wouldn't have to go through any tough bouncer with a list that, of course, didn't have their names. "Yeah," Sylar nods.

His eyes search the club for a place of conversation with Elle and find a private booth at the side of the corner. He nudges the blonde girl and leads her inside and closes the door behind him. Elle sits down on the red couch, her hands on her lap and looks up to the watchmaker. Sylar's dark hair was as ruffled as ever, but it made him all the more adorable in her eyes, and he hadn't managed to look adorable or cute for six years. His brown eyes looked more prominent, and they were framed with thick-rimmed glasses; a nerd's.

And, most importantly, his body was comfortably nestled in a suit, black tie and all, fitting him through every inch of his body. As much as Elle didn't want to proclaim the fact to the world, Sylar looked _hot_. He was outside of his Daddy sweatshirts, tainted with child's play, of those years of mundane house playing with Claire Petrelli, threw away his Gabriel Gray sweater vests and plaid shirts, yet kept the geek factor of the glasses framing his eyes. He looked more Sylar than anyone else in his pastime; she even saw a little murderous smirk under those lips.

"So," Elle said, coughing out her staring and awkwardness.

"What's the plan?" Sylar took charge immediately.

"The plan is to tab…" Elle handed him a picture of an attractive woman that was in her jacket pocket. "Her. Her name's Rossa, she used to hop around a lot, been in Mexico, Guatemala and basically everywhere else. It made her virtually untraceable, that is, until, she signed the lease to this place, now her place in the story is set in stone."

"There are 32 Knights, what number is she?" Sylar's eyes glanced up from the photo to settle on Elle's face.

"17," she answered. "If we catch her, what happens?"

"Interrogation hour," Sylar nodded.

"And if she doesn't comply?" Elle asked.

"Elle, I'm an ex-serial killer, I haven't used most of my tricks in a while, but they're not rusty and you can probably electrocute her. Needless to say, we'll _make_ her comply," Sylar smirked.

"But how do we find her? It's like finding a needle in a haystack. Plus it's the fact that she might not be here in the first place and everything's down the shit hole before it ever dropped," the blonde slumped back in her seat.

"She's here," Sylar assured her.

"How do you know?" Elle asked

"Because I asked Molly before we left and, if I'm not mistaken, that's her just there," the watchmaker pointed to a door, painted orange in a red wall.

Elle jumped up from her seat and saw what he was pointing through the glass door, the woman in the black suit, confidently strutting through the people, until she reached the other side, the door leading to God knows where. Sylar shivered slightly at the sight, the way Rossa's dark hair bounced from her shoulders and the way she carried herself in such a way that implied that she could kill any man standing in her way. She reminded him of the eerie ghost of his mother. Natasha also bore the same face Rossa was wearing, it made Sylar wonder whether his mother was once affiliated with the Knights, along with the Company.

"So, what now, chase her down?" Elle asked, glancing back to Sylar_._

"I don't think so, it'll seem suspicious and it looks like we need all the cover we can get. We have no idea how many of the people are actually Knights; they could attack us just like they attacked the others at the bank. Even if there are no back up around her, I could bet that the walls are lined with hidden cameras," Sylar looked at Elle, who was crossing her arms and biting her lip in concentration.

Her blonde hair was straighter than ever, standing on her shoulders and her body was hugged by a dress colored like the night, but managed to flow down, barely even skimming her knees. The sight of Elle like this almost made him swallow awkwardly. _Almost. _

"I know what we're going to do," the blonde lighted up, her blue eyes looking at him excitedly. She opened the glass door and the music rang around them, and pulled his arm until they were both out of the room. "We're going to dance our way through."

Sylar glared her down, in translation, Elle figured that arched eyebrow probably meant, "No fucking way in hell am I going to dance our way through because I'm Sylar and no goddamned serial killer-turned-domesticate is going to _dance_ their way through," because she knew well enough that the man before her probably flourished it up and didn't use curse words.

"Come on, what other way is there? Like you said, there's tons of security and we'll fit right in, anyway. We'll move swiftly, and, before you know it, we'll be on the other side and we'll smack the Knight bitch down," Elle proposed.

"Fine," Sylar shrugged his shoulders.

As soon as his feet were on the dance floor, packed with people, an upbeat rock song began to play on the stereos. Elle took his hands in hers and, suddenly, heat began to flow through them and he felt his feet tapping.

"There ya go," she said encouragingly.

Truthfully, Gabriel Gray hadn't danced with anyone, _really_ danced with anyone since senior prom and he got freaking dumped twenty minutes later, and he finally got out, and here he was with Elle. The blonde in front was, it seemed, having the time of her life, moving her feet slowly towards the door Rossa went through. She was twirling in his arms, silently asking Sylar to move her, twirl her, dip her, anything. Sylar laughed when she accidentally stepped on his foot like a clumsy teenager, and it was like it was a normal date.

"See, we're having fun," Elle smiled at him.

"Guess we are," Sylar grinned equally as wide.

"And we're almost there," the blonde said, nudging towards the blue-colored door.

Elle took his hands in hers and asked him to twirl him and show him what he had to offer to the club. He turned her around, her blonde hair whipping behind her, but, truthfully, he was just playing with his hands.

"Come on, have some fun won't you?" she asked encouragingly.

"Notice this quickly. I'm not the best dancer in the world," Sylar smiled meekly.

"Lucky that this is only fake dancing," the blonde looked up to him.

The stereos soon played Santana, the title slipped Sylar's name but it seemed that it was one of Elle's favorites. The blonde lighted up with joy and began to move her feet on the floor, with the blinking lights as her atmosphere. She took his hands and slowly, she maneuvered them quickly through the crowd and ending at the end of the room, about three or four steps to the door.

Sylar wanted to tell her that they were here, but she didn't seem to notice; she was too hyped. Elle, in a measure to continue 'fake-dancing', touched Sylar's shoulders, her hands tracing gently on his shoulder blades. He knew it was nothing but he couldn't help feeling some kind of shiver, starting from where Elle touched him, then coursing down his spine like an internal plague. Only it didn't make him want to kill himself, it was a different kind of sensation. The watchmaker swallowed his breath and Elle took her hands away from him, facing him, his eyes gazing up to him, those blue orbs that he fell for.

No, this wasn't happening; he thought to himself, he had Claire, he had kids, and she had Peter. He wasn't 26 anymore, he grew up, she left him, yet she's looking at him like he's the only one that matters, that even the mission doesn't matter, the blue-colored room so near to them, the prospect that brought them here in the first place. But Sylar can't bring himself to speak, his breath is caught in his throat and Elle's still staring at him.

"I…" she started, bringing her hands up to his face. But, like the moment wasn't destructive enough, Sylar heard a bang. He looked around, seeing if it was only his super hearing or it was a sound shared by the others. No recognition of the sound was painted on the people's faces, so he concluded it was only him.

"What?" Elle caught his expression.

"A door closing, like a bang, I think it came from the door," Sylar said to her, his heart still beating fast. "It's just here, come on," Elle said. When she walked in front of him towards the door, he could hear two words, muttered out of her mouth, _I'm sorry. _

* * *

Miryoku Senso knew her job, knew the ins and outs, and the consequences and the actions, the where, why and who of her job, yet she couldn't help but make screw-ups. The major factor was probably the fact that the job that she knew everything about, the brown file in her brain, wasn't even hers yet. It was still her father's; despite the fact that he was in a hospital, minutes away from an aneurysm and here she was, doing the job she rightfully deserved.

She'd been under the shadows when she was a major benefactor to the Knights. The Japanese girl was heavily covered in tattoos, a body scripture, of symbols and signs, spanning from her neck and it went in a full shirt. It seemed like she was a rebellion, even her face spoke of expressions full of badass. The girl opened the door, inviting the woman of her forties to step into the outside. The back alley of the club was filled with puddles and the dark night was hovering over them like an old friend.

The Japanese girl crossed her arms and waited for the woman to say something. But it was she instead who initiated conversation, saying, "You heard about the bank?"

"Yes, it was…unfortunate, yet tactically useful," Rossa nodded.

"Tactically useful, huh? What's tactically useful about the other side getting the file? They could find us, y'know," Miryoku pointed out.

"Yet again, tactically useful," Rossa said.

Miryoku sighed and rubbed her forehead in aggravation and said, "Just because we want one of them, doesn't mean we can handle the whole freaking crew."

"Do you really think the others will last? If they take one step towards us, they die. Look around, Miryoku, the world is filled with Knights, no matter where they go," the woman said, his eyes darkening in haste. Rossa immediately took a more professional pose as she asked the young Japanese girl, "How's the child?"

"Safe and sound, following the prophecy as we speak," the girl said.

"Good, good. Everything is in motion?"

"Just a few bits and pieces but, overall, yea, we're ready to take the kid in," Miryoku nodded.

"Our Messiah deserves the best care, Miryoku, understand that," Rossa said.

"Why the hell do you think I'm doing this job? I get it; all I want is a title and a part in this story. When it goes down, I get written down as a witness," Miryoku told her, a some sort of threat. "

It can be arranged, besides, your father is ready to give you his title and you will no longer be an heir," Rossa said.

"Great," Miryoku said, not exactly buying her plan. "I'll be a Knight pretty soon, when I'm already doing the work."

The two comrades then parted ways, with the dark-haired woman entering the building once again through the door, and the Japanese girl entering world, stepping on puddles; the water on the ground the only viable evidence of her ever coming here.

* * *

Sylar phased them through the wall just in time, when Rossa entered the room, the two of them were already outside, enveloped by the cold Toronto night. Elle breathed out, her back leaning against the brick wall of the alleyway.

"So I guess you heard all that?" Sylar asked, pocketing his hand, trying to catch his breath. Elle nodded silently, words caught in her throat.

* * *

Review!

-Aly


	9. Memories Revisited

**A/N: I hope that this chapter brings back some of my old readers, because there is some PAIRE in this chap, and we are revisiting Daphlar. We are going back to basics, people!**

**This chapter references Snapshots. I would advice you to read Part 6 of Snapshots to understand the box and letters but it's readable without it. **

**This chap is thoroughly emo and such, very Peter-centric but either way ENJOY!**

* * *

**Chapter Nine**

**"Memories Revisited"**

**There are always words unspoken, hung in the balance of right or wrong, between the decision of reconciliation or falling out with family. There are always things we are too scared to say, confessions we never learned to make but it's important to remember yesterday and how we strive today. **

The morning was clarity, simply put, calm and collected with sights and sounds engineered to make the mind slow down on its tracks, which was just what Peter wanted. The young man, awoken from his sleep, of tangled limbs and ruffled sheets, looked around, lights blinding him from the window opening up to the balcony and took a deep breath. Elle was still sleeping beside him, in a mess of blonde hair and naked beauty and he gave her a kiss on the top of her head, one of the few adoring appearances Peter put on for her sake and put on his t-shirt at the side of the couch.

The amnesiac went to a shelf in the living room that occupied most of Sylar's books, books he loved but not enough to be part of his collection in his private room. He fingered the spines, the titles shining with a gold font and took out Moby Dick, just for the fun of it. But when he took it out, he found a box hiding behind the copy.

It was a big one, but brown as normal, faded from years of use. Peter, ever the curious traveler, took out the rest of the books that covered the box from his eyes and soon his hands fingered over it, and traced the name on the front, a faded color of a normal blue-colored marker, _Peter. _His eyes widened and took out the box fully and carried it with him to the kitchen, where it would sit on the kitchen counter, marble and all.

Peter took a deep breath and opened it. Pictures, letters and everything in it were remnants of his old life. The letter sitting at the top of it was addressed to him, from Molly. His mind was quickly filled of the image of the girl, the brown haired teenager that Claire said he was very close with, some sort of a friendship on earth. She seemed like a sweet girl, and something swelled inside him when he thought of her, like he was remembering just how much she meant to him.

He opened the letter; saw the curvy penmanship of a girl, with the words, Dear Peter at the top of the page. The paper was decorated with squiggles and doodles, just a few tidbits of it, and Peter smiled to himself seeing that. He read the letter silently, his back leaning into his seat, reading the lines of _plus you were a bit on the whiny side. God, you complained for not being a good hero, about actually being a hero, for that matter. Didn't it help that you were already doing great with the whole saving-the-world shindig? Wasn't it a boost-up knowing you saved the world dozens of_ _times? _

This girl was truthful, that was for sure, and it certainly put a smile on his face knowing he wasn't perfect, that his former self wasn't a statue of brilliance put up by the encouragement of his fellow friends. There were dents and he was glad for it, but he wasn't exactly marble, either. He put the letter back in the box and took out another one, with a picture that Peter recognized, of the two little boys in front of the house, the scribbling behind it proclaimed it was the Linderman family, Peter and Gabriel two of them. The other letter he was holding onto was Sylar's.

A door opened in the house and Peter craned his neck to see Claire, yawning and attired in a rugged t-shirt and sweatpants. Peter quickly hid the box in the same place Claire kept her booze, in the bottom cupboard, figuring that the two of them hid the box for good reason: for Peter's prying eyes not to find it.

Claire entered the kitchen, rubbing her eyes, looking tired. Peter tried to understand the situation was for her at that moment in time. College drop-out, mother by the time she was nineteen and having the former love of her life reappear before her eyes. It was indeed a complicated scenario, it hit her more than it ever crashed into Sylar; the watchmaker was dealing with his estranged brother, the man he never really knew, but she was dealing with someone she loved and who loved her back, knowing her soul through and through.

Then he remembered just how awkward Claire was when they met; he finally understood why. She had no idea how to adjust to the prospect of a mirage of her beloved Peter coming into her life. He made things difficult for her for being what she didn't want him to be.

"Morning," she smiled at him, tucking strands of her brunette hair behind her ear. Peter had seen pictures of Claire four years ago; she had been a blonde, honey curls waving down her shoulders, the very idea of the all-American girl. She was beautiful in those pictures, but, nonetheless, it seemed she was always beautiful.

"Hey," he greeted her back.

Claire propped up her elbows on the counter, one side of her face leaning on her cheek and said, "Some night last night was."

"Best believe it," Peter agreed, nodding and taking out a carton of milk and pouring it out for both of them. "I still can't wrap my mind around it. Savior of the day is a kid? Imagine how he's gonna feel, though he's probably oblivious to it right now."

Sylar and Elle had come home, with solemn faces and both of them were itching away from each other, like they'd done something embarrassing along the way. But they told tem what they found out nonetheless. The two Knights had shared information with each other regarding the Messiah. No names were pronounced from their lips, but the age group was obtained, the biggest shock to their group: that the savior was merely a child.

"His world's gonna crash down," Claire said, her green eyes glassy, no direction pointed in her irises.

"What's on your mind, Claire? You seem a little out there," Peter looked at her.

"The kids," Claire said. "Just wondering what they feel right now. I've mostly been worried about me and Sylar, adjusting, going through everything, but now all I can think about is them. Mommy's always absent-minded and now Daddy's off doing missions, and these four new people they have to get used to. But they're troopers, they just think of this as another great adventure and it doesn't hurt that they like you guys, either."

"Yeah, they seem like great kids. You've got one hell of a family, Claire. You're, uh, lucky," Peter smiled sadly.

Claire was happy to hear that, something in her heart glowed a bright gold hearing those words uttered from his lips. Something told her that he missed out on a family, from she gathered, the only person he ever considered family, truly family was Lincoln, and he died. Even Alice didn't seem that close to Peter. Lincoln was someone Peter really trusted, trust for the new Peter was scarce, when the former one could love easier than it took to breathe.

"Hey, you're part of this family, if you want to be or not," Claire smiled at him.

"Thanks," Peter nodded appreciatively at her, smiling weakly. "And, uh, Claire?"

"Yeah?" Claire looked up.

"I'm sorry I'm not the man you wanted me to be," Peter said sadly.

His tone was unlike any other she heard from him; sure, she had heard it before, when Petrelli was still his surname, but not with him. It was mixed with melancholy; it was the same tone he took with her when he first told her he loved her.

"I didn't expect Peter to come back and welcome me back with willing arms, I don't expect you to do that, either. I loved Peter, but I let go. You can't apologize for what you are," the young mother said. She saw Peter's hand on the counter and placed her on top of it in a form of comfort; he seemed more vulnerable than he showed to be.

"That's extremely 'motivational speaker', you know that?" Peter chuckled.

"At least it's not Yes Man," Claire smiled. She tugged on his hand and said, "Come on, we'll make some breakfast just for us."

She let go and went to the upper cupboards, taking out ingredients. "Do you cook?"

"Oh yeah, I'm a regular Nigella Lawson," Peter said. He glanced down on his hand, wondering if that touch made imminent affect to her body, sending shocks and shivers down his spine, as it did with him.

* * *

Sylar sat in the living room, on the pullout couch Peter and Elle fell asleep on. The couple was now in the kitchen, for a breakfast that Sylar insisted he wasn't hungry for. The watchmaker crossed his arms, in thought mode. He promised himself Elle was not going to be a setback for him, but last night _was_ a setback.

He didn't want to feel like this, Elle was the one who left, who lied and his life was finally getting on the tracks. He had everything every man dreamed of, an attractive girlfriend, two beautiful kids he called his own though the blood that ran through their veins begged to differ, a mundane job, not one of those 9-to-5 offices, which Sylar despised by the way; his distaste for mingling with people he didn't know and didn't want to know still kept on after all these years. He wasn't the kind of guy to smile at the random hot dog guy by the road when he went to get a Smokin' Ted for the kids.

His life was on the right track, it isn't the road he planned at the beginning but at least he was moving and he knew he was doing the right thing. Keeping a promise was in no way a bad thing, especially when said promise was one made to his estranged brother on his deathbed.

"Hey," a soft voice interrupted his chain of thought. Sylar looked up to see Daphne, with a smile on her face.

"Daph," he said his tone soft and smooth.

"No breakfast?" Daphne asked, indicating to her plate full of eateries, bread topped off with butter, jelly from a cup, a healthy appetite for a woman expecting.

"No thanks," Sylar waved his hand. She sat down next to him, her elbow brushing his in the process.

She looked at him and asked, "You okay?"

"Nothing to get worked out about," Sylar shrugged his shoulders.

"Oh, come on, Sy, I know you. Something's wrong and I know it," Daphne cocked her head to the side, looking him expectantly.

"You don't know me, you haven't seen me for four years. I'm not the same man," the watchmaker looked at her intently.

"I know you more than you think to care, Sy," Daphne said, her eyes boring into his. "You're allergic to nuts, you like fast-paced stories, in books or movies or TV shows, that's why you've watched Da Vinci Code and Transformers four times each, you prefer rock over rap anytime of the day and you don't think black or white are actual colors, you like blue instead. You've never fully loved someone before, or had someone full love you, you blame you parents for everything that you are and, still, after each of your murders, you look at the blood at your hands and wonder if you did the right thing."

Sylar looked away from her gaze and she proceeded to say, "There might be a few technical glitches but you're still Sylar. Come on, tell me what's up." Sylar looked at Daphne, surely enough, she was smiling, knowing full well that she was the only one he let into his life, even Claire didn't know all those things; his relationship with Claire was built on redemption, not on his past life, as his did with Daphne.

"It's, uh, Elle," Sylar said awkwardly, ruffling his hair up. "Something happened last night at the club. We were dancing and suddenly I feel like I'm 26 all over again, ready to make a suicide attempt and get rescued."

"She shouldn't be an obstacle ," the speedster said, munching on her bread.

"I know she shouldn't but, I dunno, maybe six years ago wasn't so long ago after all," the watchmaker said, sighing. His eye contact with her remained unwanted. "Four seemed a lot to me, though."

With that, he looked at her, and Daphne's face spoke of shame and disgrace and apologies left unsaid, letters left unsent, calls she never made. Her eyes were downcast, her head held low like a woman being asked to answer the most embarrassing question in her life in front of a million spectators. "I'm sorry," her voice is almost inaudible to his ears.

"Why didn't you call? You could've sent a letter, made a call, made a goddamned smoke signal. That was all it took," Sylar's voice was becoming angered now.

"You're mad, I get it," Daphne said.

"I'm more than mad, I'm disappointed. I missed out on four years of your life when things were going good for us. And, from the looks of it, those four years were pretty damn important for you," Sylar said, nudging at her state. "Maybe I wanted to be invited to your wedding, maybe I wanted to be the guy you told when you found out you were having a baby, maybe I wanted to be part of your life."

"You still can be," Daphne takes his hand in hers, intertwining their fingers together.

"What are you thinking about?" Sylar looks at her.

"Matt and I asked Peter to be godfather to Daniella, but he didn't want to be. What about you? How would you like to be the godfather to my daughter?" Daphne asked, smiling.

He tugged on her hand and answered with a big smile, "I'd love to, Deer."

"I missed that," the blonde woman chuckled.

"I did, too," Sylar said, his palm steady on hers.

When he and Elle came home last night, they only told the rest about the Messiah, never about the other thing they heard. The Knights were coming for one of them. His voice wants to tell her, tell them and awake them with the fear that he was feeling right then, that this group, living in his home, was going to be torn apart very soon. But his heart just wanted to stay in that moment, holding hands with Daphne, knowing there was another child he was going to love unconditionally. Eventually, his voice won over and the moment was gone.

* * *

It had been five days. In almost 120 hours, his entire life course had changed, and the week wasn't even over yet. Gone was his stability, his control of the elements Fate were giving and coming were the imminent loss of control, his mind going wayward in the mess of the truth, of reality. Because he was tough, his skin was six inches deep, invincible to any touch or feel or contact, he made himself believe he was impervious to the world of change, but, truthfully, Crestblade kept his restraints tight enough that he didn't need to.

But, now, Peter Michaelson was spiraling in the aftermath. Sylar had confessed what he had not told him last night, that one of them were being affiliated with the Knights, as much as they didn't know it, they were. One of them was a traitor and, soon, their safe haven, untouchable, would be destroyed and all they'd be was on the ground. Peter was on the bed of the guest room, his legs crossed, all alone in his space; Elle was outside doing whatever she did, he didn't have the capacity to give a damn, not when his eyes are unraveling the words his brother had wrote to him.

He could just imagine Sylar trekking through their old abandoned house, cobwebs and lies and deceit all rolled into one homely atmosphere, years of cover-ups to do just that; to cover up. Peter breathed in a heavy breath and continued looking through the box. He read rapidly fast, the lines and lines of scribbly writing he knew belonged to Claire, the pictures, everything. He couldn't believe how much junk he left behind and how priceless they were to these people who loved him, his former self.

He almost-_almost_-wished that he could change, but, even if he wanted to, he knew he couldn't. even looking through all of this, nothing in his mind snapped, it was quiet, like he was watching a documentary of someone famous, blinking lights, glittering eyes, magnifying smile, the love, the fame surrounding said icon, but it just wasn't him. He wasn't like this person, brought up by faith and hope, he was the rubble beneath it. Peter just flipped through them, word after word going through him, reverberating every sense of his being, not meaning anything at all (since when has anything?).

_Nathan. Mayday. New York City. Hannah. _

Truthfully, when he read those letters, it didn't seem to fit. He didn't know what it was, but it just seemed unrealistic, something was wrong. Something he was missing, he just knew it. The pieces didn't fit together right. There was something he hadn't read, something he hadn't seen, or, maybe, something Sylar and Claire weren't telling him. It had something to do with the kids, they didn't _fit_.

He was onto the last letter, by the neat writing on the front; he realized it was Sylar's. He looked at the date and saw that it was one of the early letters, a year since he died. Peter's eyes were intent with his brother's words, as if the watchmaker was telling them himself, the words on the pages were narrated with a gruff voice he knew belonged to Sylar in his head. It was certainly a heartfelt letter; words swam around in a package of melancholy of Sylar's dictionary.

The whole letter made Peter sort of demean himself, this was the statue yet again; being shown basked in holy light. He couldn't stand it anymore. This whole thing, this charade, these people didn't want him; they never will. This box was taunting him. This letter was tearing him down. These people were not his to belong to and he wasn't theirs to belong to.

* * *

Sylar was noticing something odd about his brother, his evasiveness, more than usual, to others, his stone-cold face, no smile, no nothing. Something happened; Sylar was sure about that, he just didn't know what it was. Twenty minutes prior, he and Elle had announced that the Knights had big plans for them, especially one of them, a traitor to their own cause, oblivious to the fact. But he was sure that Peter wasn't worrying about that, he was sure of it, he knew his brother, even if they only knew each other for about four days.

"Pete, you okay?" Matt shook his best friend, as if snapping him out from a day-dream daze.

"Hmm? Yeah, just fine, Matty," Peter smiled. "'m okay."

"Ok, then, uh, you want something to eat? Claire cooked us some lunch, if you're interested," Matt asked.

"Maybe later. My mind's spinning right now. But, thanks, man," Peter shrugged.

Okay, something was officially wrong; Peter just made it through a conversation without even bringing up something he despised or longed to mock, the last time Sylar was speaking a civil conversation with his brother, the amnesiac had brought up Voldemort and the fact that he had a group of black-cloth wearing 'bitches' behind him. No, Peter was obviously not fine.

Everybody left the living room for the kitchen, and, soon, it was just him, Claire and Peter. Claire had her head on Sylar's shoulder, her hair pouring out in an elegant fashion, while the watchmaker had on his glasses, his eyes skimming the list of books from the library he needed to handled; he'd been taking a sick week ever since Peter came along. Peter was sitting across from them, on the one-man couch, his legs crossed and his eyes gazing out the window.

"What are you thinking about?" Sylar asked his brother.

"Which church did you go into?" Peter asked.

"Huh?" Sylar asked.

"When I died, which church did you go to? One of those big churches where Jesus just hovers over you when you ask for forgiveness or, like, the ones where it's only little but you don't care about the size because you know God's always there?" Peter's eyes spoke of fire.

Sylar finally realized how Peter could've possibly known that: the box. "Oh, fuck," he cursed.

"Yea, oh, fuck, Sy," Peter nodded.

"I'm sorry you found it," Claire said sympathetically. She could only imagine how he was feeling right then, to have all the evidence just thrown at him right then. Oh, shit…the kids…did he _know_?

"I've been apologizing to you guys ever since I came here, 'sorry, not your Peter', 'sorry, this is who I am', 'sorry I can't be who you want me to be', and then I realize I shouldn't be, because I'm not even close to what you imagine me to be. And I'm goddamned proud of that fact," Peter snarled. "Why did I even bother staying? Why did you even bother caring? I'm a lost cause, I know that."

"Peter…" Claire's voice was fading.

"You're my brother," Sylar said, in a voice that only amounted the fact as the most obvious truth. "That's why I care."

"I'm not your brother. Your brother is Peter Petrelli, nurse, fiancé, good guy, no shooting at people just because they get in his way, the guy who forgave you straight on when he was dying," the amnesiac stood up, hovering over Sylar, who was still sitting down on the couch. "I'm just the guy ruining your life right now."

"I don't resent you!" Sylar raised his voice. Claire disappeared to the scene, coming into the kitchen to make sure her kids were safe from the argument between the two brothers.

"Oh, come on, Sy. You do, you regret letting me stay here. I know some part of you wishes I was back at Crestblade so that you'd still be happy and safe and oblivious. I brought this into your house; I brought this near your kids. There is no way you're happy with my being here," Peter said.

Sylar stood, so that he could see his brother at eye-level. The watchmaker observed the younger man, the hand curled up in a fist, his eyebrows creased, his eyes starting a flint of fire, matching the rest of his face.

"I don't resent you," Sylar repeated, his words softer now, but it triggered a soft bone in Peter's body. "If you say another ungrateful word, I'm throwing you out. I don't wanna hear about any shit from you, okay? We've been happy with you being here, we've accepted you, so don't you dare say, don't you fucking say that I don't want you here." Sylar turned away from his brother, brown eyes tearing away from his brother's identical ones, dead calm, silence hanging over them, a ghost simultaneously destroying in its path.

"I read your letter," Peter said.

"I know you did," Sylar said, his back to him.

"There's a line you wrote. 'as brothers, I don't think we'll ever be on the same page', and I finally realized what that meant," Peter said, and Sylar could feel his presence nearing him like a catalyst.

"What?"

"I am what I am because of what you are now," the amnesiac said; the simple truth. A few words changed everything. "It's like we're opposites. Think about it. I kill, you used to kill. I'm a jackass; you used to be a jackass. When I'm happy, you're torn up. When I'm hurt, you're happy as hell. There has to be contrast or else the world will explode."

"I don't want you to change," Sylar was still looking away from him.

"Right, because I'll ruin your fairytale if I do," Peter's breath was almost hitting Sylar on the back. Sylar slowly turned to look at his brother, so calm, so silent that it freaked him out.

"Does this all fit to you?" he asked.

"What?" Peter asked back.

"This family, this everything, does this fit to you? Do you want it to fit or are you oblivious to what's actually happening. That all this time, I'm just a sore replacement for you?" Sylar asked. Peter was silent. What…what was he talking about?

"I brought you up in a head, because I thought that was the right thing to do, you were dead and you were my brother, so I just carved this dream of you in my mind. But I was wrong all along," he continued. "You're a fuckup, Pete. You were in your last life and you proved well enough that you still are. So that's the big truth about the world. People disappoint you. So go, go out that door right now because I don't wanna take anymore of your shit anymore. Don't play drama queen with me. You're spinning tangled words, and I can't understand you anymore. Are you okay or not? Are you the exception or the rule? Are you happy or screwed? Stop talking to me in another language, make sense, speak in full sentences, because it doesn't _fit_."

Sylar's words burned a hole in his heart, bruising his mind, tearing his heart, making his score one to zip. He had never seen Sylar so angry, so bruised, so…numb. "Two plus two doesn't equal five, Peter. You're the missing equation," he said.

"What the fuck are you saying?" Peter asked.

"The kids," Sylar said. "They're not mine, they're yours." Silence.

"Claire got pregnant with them when she was eighteen, when she was still with you. Their last name is Petrelli, not Gray. It wasn't a mistake when Michael called you Daddy two days ago, it wasn't a lie, there wasn't a mix-up. He called you Daddy because you're his."

"No," Peter mumbled. "No, no, no, no, no. no!" Peter fell to the floor, cradling his head.

"No," he kept saying. "You're lying. You must be lying. No," Peter mumbled. "No That can't be right!"

"Why does it matter anyway? You've made it clear you're not Peter. It shouldn't matter anyway," the watchmaker said tauntingly. Peter looked up to his brother and used his telekinesis to pin him to the wall. But Sylar was much more skilled at the game and threw him off to the floor, colliding with the glass table, shattering it to pieces.

"Get out," Sylar said.

"Wha-?" Peter asked.

"You were right, I don't want you here," he said. "_Get out_."

* * *

"Why the hell did you do that?" Matt yelled at him. They were outside of the apartment; Peter had been thrown out anyway.

"What do you mean?" Peter asked, looking at him.

"You_ know_ what I mean. I know you hate the world and everything, but I thought you cared about us. Sylar and Claire could've given us protection, help, anything and you just blew our chance of solving this Knights thing," Matt yelled.

"I do care about you guys!" Peter yelled. Thank God they were all alone.

"I find that hard to believe!" Matt shot back.

"I just didn't want to know, okay? You happy? That's the reason I just had a bitch fight with my brother, because I just didn't want to know!" Peter said.

"About what?" Matt asked.

"About everything! I didn't wanna know that I saved the cheerleader and then saved the world. I don't wanna know that I had this perfect life planned in front of me because right now I am a royal mess of shit I can't even bother to clean up. I don't wanna know, I most certainly didn't want it thrust in front of my face like I'm an idiot."

Matt looked at him in a way only Matt could; a mix of sympathy and anger all at once, he had a knack for burrowing into Peter, trying to find what he wanted and finally got it out. Maybe that was what family did to each other, they try to find out the truth about each other so that they'd pose better for the Christmas special. But Peter was the last person to know what family was; he already blew off his real one.

"And guess what?" Peter said. "Hannah and Michael, they're my kids. All the more reason Sylar threw me out."

"Pete," Matt said.

"I just don't know how I'm supposed to act, what I'm supposed to do. Tell me what I'm supposed to do, what I'm supposed to feel 'cause I'm so damn confused," Peter held his head in his hands.

"You don't have to feel responsible for them," Matt said.

"But they're my kids," Peter said.

"Doesn't mean you should be actively involved in their lives, they've survived this long without you. I think they're pretty good. And Sylar and Claire can keep on with this charade of you not being their dad to protect them, and you," Matt was truly the most level-headed person Peter knew.

"So what do we do now?" Peter asked.

"We take it one step at a time. And step one is going back inside," Matt smiled.

* * *

_"I don't want you to change," Sylar said, his voice was soft, like a song lulling in his ears. _

_"__I know that now," Peter nodded, making up his bed on the couch. __"I'm sorry I was such an ass to you earlier." _

_"Look, Joss Whedon once said that it's important to be yourself, unless you suck. And I think you've got way too much pride to think you suck," Sylar smiled. _

_Peter looked at his brother and shot the older man a big grin, "That's the nicest thingly-veiled insult I've ever been given." _

Now he was asleep, on the couch. Peter was having a dream. He was in a high school, red and white everywhere, streamers, banners, the lockers, everything was red and white. A festive school. The name of the school was proudly proclaimed on one of the banners in red paint: Union Wells High School. That seemed familiar. He'd been here before.

There was a trophy case, glass and a picture of a girl being presented with a plaque from a sheriff. 'Jackie', her name was. Peter didn't know anyone named Jackie, why was he here?

"Where am I?" he muttered to himself.

"This is where Claire and I met," an eerie voice wafted his surroundings.

Peter turned around, and saw his doppelganger, or, to be exact, Peter Petrelli. The man had a scar on his face, slashing a side of his face, finally ending on his cheek, but his eyes were jovial, his hair straight, not at all ruffled as his was. Peter Michaelson sort of felt demeaned by his presence, the man that had lived for 28 years before bidding goodbye to his world, and was visiting his present self in his dream. Sure, that wasn't a sentence he would've imagine he would think, but it was true.

"Today is Homecoming of 2006. In about fifteen minutes, I'll walk through those doors and I'll meet Claire for the first time. This is how it goes," Original Peter said.

"Huh," Peter pondered. "Well, why am I here? Why am I dreaming this? Why am I dreaming you?"

"You ask too many questions," his former self said.

"It's what makes me adorable," Peter shrugged.

"Why, Peter, why are you acting this way?" Peter Petrelli asked, pocketing his hands. He took in a deep breath and looked at his present self, sensing just how different they were.

"Meaning what exactly?" Peter twiddled his fingers.

"When someone tells you you're a parent, you act, you react. You don't say 'no' over and over again like a melodramatic high school girl. You take responsibility for not doing the right thing," the dead man proclaimed. His voice was steady; a tone a father usually took with a misbehaving child.

"You're not anyone who can tell me what to do. In fact, technically, you're not even anyone, you're dead and I took your place," Peter crossed his arms. "I got a life. And Sylar said it was fine. Claire said it was fine."

"You obviously have no idea what I've been through," the dead man shook his head, playing a smirk on his face. "I went to afterlife, okay? The white light is right and all, then I came back. Since you don't remember anything from your former life, I've been around my memories. Starting from my birth, my childhood, and everything following; it's insanity, and I can't take it anymore."

"Then go back to afterlife," Peter shrugged as if it was the most obvious solution to the most complicated problem.

"It doesn't work like that. I don't know why. It's like my body is you and I'm my soul. That's why I can't go anywhere, that's why I'm stuck, because we're not connected," Peter Petrelli sighed. "The way I see it, you only have two options."

"Whoa, hold up, me? I don't wanna be a part of this. Your problem, you figure it out," Peter waved his hands.

"Two options, Michaelson," Peter snarled.

"What? Live or let die? I like my life, sure, I was a whiny bitch, but I'm making it worth. I'm not for bargain, man," the amnesiac said.

"This isn't a game, okay?" Peter said seriously.

"I know it isn't. But the reason I'm not playing is that it's not my game to play. I'm not gonna willingly put on the jersey just because you ask me to," Michaelson said.

"Look," his former self looked away from him, unresolved issues still hanging in the air, neither of them wanting to put it on the table; they'd had rough lives, they knew, but, right now, they were stuck in dreamland and the one who was living would probably not remember it. There was no use, there was no resolve or resentment, it was just truth. Peter looked where he was, and saw Peter and Claire.

Peter in a trench coat, with a happy smile and bangs hanging over his face and Claire with curly blonde hair with a red bag in her hands. A memory, frozen in time and these two opposing sides were left to admire. "It gets better," Peter said, as Claire was walking away from him. "Life after high school gets a lot better."

At this, Peter Petrelli looked at his present self and said grievingly, with melancholy strung between his words, "I lied."

* * *

Review, dang it all!

-Aly


	10. Another Author's Note

**Author's Note**

Yupp...another one. But this time, it's good news.

YES.. THE CANCELLATION IS OFF.

Expect the new chapter in about a week, but the story's gonna be shorter than planned. I've decided to take a new spin on things...

Thanks all for supporting me.

BUT ON ONE CONDITION WILL THIS WORK! I NEED YOUR COOPERATION!

That means REVIEWS, and THOUGHTS. I don't wanna be writing to Ghost Town. Call me selfish, whatever. I'm the one holding the cards here.

This message will be deleted in two or three days.

Thanks all

-Aly


	11. Duality

**A/N: So, the return. Hi. **

**Please review. I will not hesitate to pull the plug yet again. **

**Enjoy, now. **

* * *

Chapter Ten

**"Duality"**

**A good, a bad must exist for the world to exist. For what is the hero supposed to save the innocent from? What is the villain's purpose if not evil? The world was not bent to be a perfect one, the world was bent on being one with duality. **

"Hold it, you told him?" Niki asked, her eyes bulging out of bewilderment.

Her blonde hair was tousled and turned and she got up instantly as her friend sitting opposite her told her what she needed to know. The two of them were in the brightly-lit apartment of Mohinder Suresh that was, coincidentally, empty, save for the two of them. Micah and Molly had spent the morning at Jonathan's, the boy Molly was baby-sitting for, and Mohinder was still at the hospital, either that or he was slowly dying from the work he was pouring on himself.

Claire was sitting across her, her hands tied together in anxiety and her face spoke of accidents and apologies. The young mother looked at her like she just trashed her father's car while out drinking with friends, but this scenario was much more serious; they weren't dealing with a messed-up vehicle, they were dealing with her ex-fiancé, who, technically, should not be alive right now. Claire shrugged like it wasn't a big deal. Sometimes she could be so naïve.

"Sylar told him. You know how he is, he gets a little bit temperamental sometimes," she said as an explanation.

"Damn," Niki cursed under her breath. She looked back up to the dark-haired young woman and asked, "How's _he_ doing?"

"I have no idea. Peter's so cryptic; it's hard to tell just how he's feeling at the moment. He won't let anybody see it, not even his friends and I feel like I'm just wasting my time trying to figure him out," Claire sighed.

"Let's get a head-start here. What I bet he's feeling right now is guilt. There's no way in hell that he's not feeling guilty for not being there for the kids, whether they love him or not. No sane human being would not show any ounce of guilt for having missed out on three years of their kid's life," the single mother said.

"And the worst thing is, he's not the biggest problem. The kids are. I need for them to adjust. Peter is not just another play friend anymore, he's their father and he knows damn well he is," Claire said, her eyebrows knitting together in concentration to the cause.

"You know what, Claire? You need to stop worrying about them. Stop worrying about Sylar, about the kids, about the notorious gang of four. You need to start worrying about yourself. For the past week, I have heard whining about people you love, about me, even," Niki smiled. "But right now, I need to hear whining about you. I'm all ears. Go."

Claire chuckled darkly but answered her nonetheless. Her eyes left the eyes of her best friend, for that was what Niki Sanders was to her, no one else, not even Sylar, understood or tried to understand what she was going through. At least Niki knew how to pretend and just how many petty white lies to use.

"There was this time, yesterday, where I woke up and it was just me and Peter. Everybody was still asleep and everything seemed right, you know? I haven't been really alone with Peter ever since we got that letter and that didn't really go out planned really," Claire had a ghost of a smile on her face. "We had a nice talk, just me and him, about everything, the Knights, our family, the kids. And suddenly, I felt 18 all over again, I felt like I was still his niece, he was still my uncle and we were still saving the world. It was a nice feeling and just being with him, sharing smiles, talking talks, just reminds me of how easy it was, compared to now."

Niki smiled at her friend, her head leaning on her hand. There was some sort of clarity over them, some sort of calm they'd never have to explain, and, for Claire, it was completely rare, it wasn't normal for her to be normal. but then, of course, something rushed back to her, like blood flowing through her veins, a realization she would've like not to have realized. Everybody was better in oblivion, she thought, as she kept in her mind.

"God, I'm screwed," Claire cradled her head in her hands.

"What? Why?" Niki asked.

"Nik, I think I'm falling for him all over again," Claire said.

"Oh, honey," Niki cooed and got up from the couch to wrap her arms around her old friend, whose eyes started to heat up with tears. They cascaded down her ivory cheeks in a slow and tender manner, not outward sobbing; it was just a feeling that needed to come out in a gentle way. She was out of desperation.

"I love Sylar, I love him. I…think. I love the comfort he gives me, I love his smiles, the way he's always there for me, the way he's supported this family, regardless of money problems or not. I love the way he jokes, how he's like a walking dictionary, the way he's so damn smart but an idiot sometimes, too. I love the way he gets what I'm talking about, even when I don't," the young mother between cries and tears. "But I, I don't think I love _him_."

"Aww, sshh, baby girl. I just don't know what to say right now, but I know you'll make the right choice. Sylar will love you either way, we all will," Niki said, stroking her friend's hair comfortingly.

"It's just so hard," Claire's voice was squeaky now. "I used to hate Sylar. I hated him with all that I had. He did some of the worst things a person could do, he hurt me, he killed Peter, he threw Peter away like trash. And, worst of all, he killed DL."

Niki's mind sputtered with only one word: what? The way Claire said it is it was as if it was general knowledge, that she should have known. But, no, she didn't she didn't know that one of her best friends killed the only man she loved truly in her whole life. She felt her knuckles grow into fist that turned white from having to sustain what she was feeling. But Niki had always been the one in control; she could hold it in if she had to.

"You know what, Nik? I'm sorry I had to bother you. I should get going now anyway," Claire fell away from Niki's embrace.

"If you say so," the blonde mother smiled meekly. Soon enough, she was all alone, with the truth blinding her with its honesty and the fact that no one had told her that her heart was breaking because what her good friend did to her. Her anger swelled in her chest, threatening to pop and lash at Sylar. Everything was swirling in the blind truth, and she knew she was hitting something.

She knew she was bleeding in her knuckles from whatever it was that she took as a target. Then she fell down on to know that she had punched a mirror, shattering it to a million pieces. One of which, a glass-paned perfection of a reflection, talked to her, and Niki only had one way to respond.

_Get away, Jessica. I don't need you. Not now_.

And the voice responded, her voice, only darker and more sinister, with the words '_Get up. You're pathetic._'

* * *

Peter woke up with a gasp. His breathing steadied as he tried to grasp at the last shreds of his dream. He remembered it was dark and blood was involved. It was like a horror movie reeling in his head, a murderous rampage that played pet with his mind. Someone had died at the hands of someone familiar, he remembered but nothing was controlled in his mind, it was all blurry and incoherent.

But he realized he was in a safe place, in the living room of the Petrelli-Gray residence, with a comforting body next to him, he was safe. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and shrugged off his anxiety and fear. It was just a nightmare, it was nothing big, nothing he couldn't handle. He knew fear shouldn't be a setback. He settled his body on the couch, his back leaning against the soft back of the couch, his arms became crossed and his eyes were focused on nothing at all, just as his mind was concentrated on everything that was.

Peter was a father, he knew that, but it was still so new. Too new for him to adjust to. Sylar yelled at him, he knew that, too, he had never seen his brother so damn aggressive and it happened when he was with him, too, Sylar let his anger fly at him. That meant something. It meant unresolved issues and battle cries of the man that had been kept behind the books and watches of the years.

And the Knights, God, this notorious group just made things harder, all the more when it was proven they were a real threat to them, the world. They were after an innocent child and they had to find him or she before they did, because whatever titles the child was going to wear, he or she was still a child and children shouldn't be under this sort of trouble, these problems were meant from grown-ups. So, Peter concluded, he had two big problems at that moment, the obstacles he needed to thwart head on.

A) He was a father. Solution: get closer to the kids, at least. Know them, even if they didn't want to know him. He felt guilty if he didn't. But he wouldn't get to close, he got that. They already had a life before he came along, and he wasn't going to ruin that for them, or for Claire and Sylar.

B) The kid the Knights were after. Solution: find as much information about the Knights as they could, try to find where they were hiding and take them down. Also, find the kid they were looking for and give him and his family protection. Overall, it was easier said than done.

Peter got out of bed, putting on his t-shirt that rested on the arm rest and saw the picture on the mantelpiece. He hadn't seen it before, he thought, if he did, he just shrugged it off like it was nothing. It was a picture of Hannah and Michael, close to the age they were now, with giggly smiles and sunshine faces.

Hannah had her hair braided at the side, her arm wrapped around her brother's shoulder, while Michael was waving a peace sign at the camera. Michael… there was something about Michael Peter was forgetting. Then he realized. His dream, his nightmare, all blood and gore and heartbreak and murder, he was dreaming about Michael. And his dreams had a bad rap sheet for not being _right_.

* * *

Sylar was predicting, no, Sylar was sure, that today was going to end up on his black list. They were going to Nathan's today, again, second time this week, more than Sylar could endure, because who could forget what happened the last time. Heightened yells, a room full of anger and heat and unresolved things that should've been shoved under the rug years ago.

It was Nathan who couldn't let go of the past and dwell on it like a drunken man on his death bed, while Sylar was quite content living in the present. He was happy of where he ended up. Nathan just had a problem of what it took for him to get here. The phone rung and Sylar stopped what he was doing (leafing the pages of Whitman and drinking coffee like a respected intellectual) to answer.

"Hellooo," the voice said cheerily. He could recognize that cheery voice anywhere: it was Molly.

"Hey, Mol," Sylar smiled to himself.

"Hey, Sylar," she said. He could almost hear her smile.

"What's up?" Sylar asked.

"I just called to talk to Matt," Molly said sincerely.

"Matt? Why?" the watchmaker asked.

"I'm getting to know the man who saved me. Why, is there some sort of restriction behind that or something?" Molly said.

"No. I was just curious. Hold up for a while," Sylar disappeared from the receiver to retrieve Matt Parkman who was on the living room couch watching TV with his wife.

"Hey, Matt?" Sylar asked and the man craned his neck to see Sylar.

"Yeah?" Matt asked back.

"Molly's on the phone and she wants to talk to you," Sylar said.

"Me?" Matt pointed to his chest like a kid that was identified for some sort of prize and was a loser so he never won anything.

Sylar nodded and watched as Matt disappeared to the kitchen where the phone was situated. He looked happy, he could see the glow creeping on his cheeks as he said his first greeting to the girl that idolized him and thought him dead for six years. It had been a reunion a long time coming.

"Hey, you ready?" a hand clapped on his shoulder and he turned to see the smiling face of Peter. He was looking a bit anxious himself, like he was expecting a beating from Nathan.

"Yeah, as I'll ever be," Sylar nodded. He turned to Daphne, whose eyes were still intent on the television screen and asked, "Daph, you gonna be okay here?"

"I'm pregnant, not an invalid, I'll be fine," Daphne defended herself, and gave a weak smile to her best friend, then and now.

Claire entered the living room, looking as beautiful as ever, her dark hair swept to the side like a pageant queen and Peter made a note not to stare. Ever since he woke up from that dream, with him and original Peter in the deserted hallway of one Union Wells High School, seeing a flashback that he should've remembered, he couldn't stop thinking about Claire. He saw her in a completely different light, but there were things that were off-limits and, considering that it had been four years since she'd seen him last, and she was with his brother now, she was one of those things.

Claire had her children at either side of her, Hannah on her right, Michael on her left, both of them absorbed in one thing or another. Hannah was pre-occupied with flipping the pages through a colored book and Michael was fumbling with his t-shirt. "Come on," Claire cocked her head to the two brothers as a measure for them to get the door opened and leave their apartment.

"See ya. Come back in one piece," Elle said with a smiling face, her blonde hair tied up in a ponytail.

She kissed him chastely on the cheek, as if scared that the kiss would be witnessed by the three year olds looking up to Peter at the moment. He turned his back to Elle and joined eyes with Claire as they walked out the door, into the world, and, somehow, Peter was ready to face another ghost of his past because he knew his feet were solidly stuck in the present.

"Come on, Michael. We're gonna go see Grandpa Nate now," Claire cooed to her son.

"Bu' I wanna hold hands with Peter, Mommy," Michael said, looking up to her mother.

Claire threw Peter a curious look but answered her son by saying, "Go ahead."

Then Peter could feel a warm, little hand curling inside his own and the feeling spread through his entire body like happiness with a little side dose of alcohol. He looked down at Michael and saw that his lips were already in a full-blown grin and Peter's own lips were beginning to curl into a damned smile he couldn't keep hidden.

* * *

The Petrelli Mansion was huge, with the gate of swirling black patterns and the white-washed walls of the surface. It had the right to be called a mansion, it seemed like every little kid's dream home, and he was willing to bet that they had servants as well, with the clean tux and all. Michael still had his hand in Peter's, the boy somehow refused to let go, not that Peter was complaining, either. Claire stepped forward and knocked on the door, two taps after, the door was answered by a butler. Peter concealed an inner smirk.

"You ready to meet your brother?" Sylar asked him, so damn civil like their fight never even happened. Peter was wondering if he liked it that way or not.

"Well," Peter shrugged. "He can't be any worse than you, can he?"

Sylar chuckled and entered the household; Peter noticed that his brother looked quite empty without toddlers gripping on the sleeve of his hand but he looked quite content either way. The five of them were gripped in the cold serenity that the mansion was wrapped in; it felt chilly, not warm and calm like Sylar and Claire's apartment, like it was just shrouded in mystery. Judging by the fact that Peter had lived 26 oblivious years as one of their own, he thought that it probably was.

"Nathan?" Claire called out.

"Claire?" a voice asked back.

Soon enough, a man came out of the shadows, dressed in a suit but a loose tie around his neck and a button off to be more casual. Petrelli… Peter finally knew why this man looked so familiar; this was the Senator from New York, running soon for President.

"We brought along a special guest for you to see," Claire said timidly and stepped aside so that Nathan could see Peter, his hand held loosely by a three-year-old, his face was weak of excuses; he might as well face it now or never.

"Pete?" Nathan asked.

"Yeah, but I have to warn you, I'm the pirated version," Peter smiled.

His next words were cut out of his mouth by Nathan's surprising embrace of his thought-to-be brother. His big, strong arms were wrapped around Peter, like a protective blanket and, soon enough, Peter sunk into the hug like a boy would his father. He realized just how different his two brothers were. Sylar seemed warmer with a tint of cold mystery; Nathan was cold with a tint of warm hospitality. Nathan pulled away but kept a strong grip of Peter's shoulders and his face grew around his grin and smile lines. It was quite the difference to the man Peter saw on the news with the fake politician smile.

"Good to have you back, Pete," Nathan said.

Okay, Peter thought, this man wanted to live in oblivion. He didn't want to be faced with the truth that the young man he thought dead for four years would not know who he was and he wouldn't act the way he used to. As soon as Nathan had his hands off Peter, Michael put his hand back into Peter's like a shell, instantly reminding him there was nothing to worry about, save for the fact that his dreams predicted the little boy he was holding was going to die.

He smiled weakly down at the toddler and he responded with a knowing grin. Peter noticed that Nathan had been ignoring Sylar ever since he stepped inside the house, entertaining his grandchildren and Claire and Peter, instead, so he leaned into Sylar and asked, "Why is it that Nathan is such an ass to you?"

Sylar chuckled a little and answered, "He never forgave me for what I did to you and Claire."

"But you were the one that took care of them when I was dead," Peter looked confused.

"Try telling that to him. I've been trying for four years," Sylar looked away and entered the dining room. Peter was astounded to how grand the whole house, the ceiling was framed with gold and the chairs themselves seemed fit of a king. Lunch was already served, by the looks of it.

* * *

Niki had her palms pressed against the floor-length mirror in her room, her hair in disarray and her eyes were bloodshot, trying to control what would eventually be unleashed either way.

"I don't need you," she said to the reflection in the mirror that was, unlike her, pacing the ground calmly.

"Let's think of it this way, Nik. I'm your anger and I've been kept away like it for years, years! And you finally find something to snap you," the reflection made a crack sound with a smirk on her face. "I'm here to protect you from yourself."

"I don't need protection," Niki strained her voice.

"This is hurting you, Niki, all of this. It's putting a strain on your life, putting a strain on your family, on Micah. You need this release, to just lose control for once. You know you need to," the reflection was at eye-level now.

"What are you going to do?" Niki asked, tears now glistening in her eyes.

"I'm going to take care of everything. You don't need to worry. I'm going to take care of Sylar and everyone else," the reflection said. "Okay?" N

iki looked at her, how she looked so similar but acted so damn out of play. But she said she was going to take care of everything. Playing on that sentence alone, Niki said, quite gravely and some out of term, "Okay."

Niki felt a sensation play around her, her entire being taking part in it, and she felt herself being pulled into the mirror, and her counterpart going out into the world. It was a feeling Niki never wanted to feel again but she was so tired. So tired of being strong, and her reflection was right, she needed to lose her control. She felt better being confined.

She watched her other self take command and she pulled out her phone. She dialed the number slowly and said into the receiver, "Hey, this is Erica. Yes, that Niki Sanders. I hear you're looking, mind if I fill in the position?" There was a pause then 'Erica' continued and said, "Good, I'll meet you then."

Erica flipped the phone and then looked at Niki in the mirror, "I'm gonna take care of everything. Don't worry, Nik." And she left the room, leaving Niki to be consumed by the darkness.

* * *

"So, Peter, what is it that you do exactly?" Nathan stabbed his knife into his steak.

Peter looked at him and cleared his throat awkwardly and answered, "I, uh, take care of things, make things run smooth." He didn't really know how to explain his job and he received an arched eyebrow from Sylar, who knew full well that Peter's job entitled him to wield his powers freely and kill whoever got in his way.

"Would you care to elaborate?" Nathan asked.

"I'd rather not," Peter resisted the urge to add the word 'sir' behind that. Things were Nathan seemed so damn formal, he felt like he was being interrogated just because he fathered Claire's kids and didn't do a goddamned thing their entire lives.

"And you're seeing someone?" the older man asked.

"Yeah. Her name's Elle, for a few months now, actually," Peter smiled. At this, Nathan gave a sidelong glance to Claire, as if to inspect what the hell was wrong with her. Peter had a grudging feeling that Nathan was a Peter/Claire (Paire?) shipper deep down inside.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, a piercing pain came into Peter's head, it was like a million needles sticking into his brain and he screamed in agony and he cradled his head in his hands. He fell out of his chair and went down to the hardwood floors of the dining room.

"Pete," he could hear Sylar's soothing voice amidst the pain. "Peter." He felt arms wrapping around him, but they weren't the strong ones of Sylar, or the steady ones of Nathan, it was the soft, gentle ones of one Claire Petrelli.

"Peter," Claire brushed back his hair. "Peter, what should I do?"

"Call… call the rest," Peter managed to say.

Through his super-hearing, he could hear the numbers being punched into Sylar's phone and the blurred talking of Sylar. Soon enough, not more than a minute later, he heard the whooshing sound of the imminently recognizable Daphne Parkman coming to his rescue. He felt Claire's hand be parted from his body, the warmth disappearing from his back, suddenly; two new pairs of hands were on him, one gripping his cheek worriedly, and another patting his back in a comforting manner.

He looked up for a second, tolerating the pain, just for one tiny moment to see Hannah and Michael there, by his side, being at his aide. He saw Hannah's face, the way she wrinkled but smiled at the same time, it was a wonder, she was a wonder, a miracle he couldn't begin to explain and he couldn't believe he took part in making her and not being a good enough man to her. By the print they left on his shirt, Peter concluded the hands on his back were Michael's.

The dream…the nightmares…Michael…death…save. There was an image Peter saw before he was left in the black, a recollection from the nightmare. The blood and gore had come from Michael's corpse, the boy lying on the floor with a silhouette of death around him, but there had been a shadow overlooking him like a ghost, this ghost had been responsible for Michael's. Sylar.

* * *

Claire felt eighteen again, her father's mansion had sized down, in her imagination, into a cramped bathroom of Peter Petrelli's old apartment, and her hands had occupied a pregnancy stick. The aftermath of Peter's 'episode' was like the aftermath of finding out her fiancé had left behind a grave miracle in her hands.

She was worried about Peter, there was no point in the denying that very fact. He had stolen her soul once again; this was twice now. Peter in his old room in the mansion, after being taken there by the arms of his two brothers, both of them ignoring each other's worried gaze for the man they had in common. She was on the stairs, her head leaning against the banister as she saw Matt come out of the room.

Her head snapped up at the sight of Peter's best friend and asked immediately, "How is he?"

"He's fine," Matt answered with a slight smile on his lips. "Or he's gonna be."

Matt took a seat at one of the steps next to her and Claire asked, "Has he always had these, uh, episodes?"

"They come and go, really. Most of them come whenever he's confronted with issues from his past, like his relationship with Elle reminds him of his with yours and Daniella probably reminds him of Hannah," the telepath said calmly.

"Sounds like the past ten months have basically been a big baby-sitting job for you guys," Claire sighed.

"Yeah," Matt chuckled. "It has, actually. Taking care of Peter is a full time job; it's like already having a kid. He'll run around when you tell him not to. He'll do things he wants to, just because we tell him not to do those things. But, when he calms down, when he's happy and we have no complaints, we really are a family."

Claire crossed her arms and listened to Matt's voice happily. They were a little hybrid of a family, weird and dysfunctional, not unlike she and Peter were with Hannah. And, somehow, she felt guilty for how this family, Matt and Daphne's, ended up. She felt guilty for keeping Peter for more than she should've, because, hearing the truth come out from one of the most honest men she'd ever met, she didn't need to keep him.

He had his family, and she had hers. They were from two completely two backgrounds, and, for the first time, she was done fighting. She was done trying to convert Peter to what she wanted him to be, she was done trying to change him, try to make him turn around and just see her. Because he had other things he needed to see, more important things, she was done trying to keep him handled.

"Come on, let's take a walk," Claire patted a hand on Matt's arm.

"But, Peter," Matt's voice drifted.

"For once, I think he can take of himself," Claire said and got up, holding out her hand. Matt took it, just for a leap.

Back in Peter's room, Peter Michaelson was fluttering his eyes and adjusting to the coarse wrapping that seemed to be a blanket. The confusion soon turned into boiling anger. Sylar… His brother was going to kill Michael. His _son_. Protectiveness and anger rolled together was not a good emotion for Peter Michaelson to endure, it usually ended up bad, with blood burning and some spilling on the floor. He got out of bed immediately and opened the door, in search for Sylar. He went down the stairs, his breath hitching in his throat.

"Sylar?" Peter's voice was loud, but not enough. He was frantic, almost. His feet guided him until he reached the kitchen, where, finally, Sylar resided. He was sitting at a table nonchalantly, sipping his coffee.

"Peter, you're up," Sylar looked up to his brother and smiled. He noticed the anger that was tracing along Peter's face and asked, "Something wrong, Peter?"

"Yeah, something's wrong," Peter drew up his hand and pinned Sylar against the wall of the kitchen, in the process, shattering a dozen cups and plates.

"What the fuck, Peter?" Sylar asked.

"You know what, I think we need to re-situate ourselves," Peter said, his telekinetic grip still on Sylar, directing Sylar's feet as to where to go. T

hey stopped at a door, abandoned, before, Peter found out it collected storage over the years but it was still huge. The space wasn't cramped at the least as he threw Sylar away at a few wooden boxes. Peter's brown eyes had turned dark as black. "Peter, what's going on with you?" Sylar asked.

"I had a dream," Peter paced. "In this dream, Michael's dead. And you said that my dreams could tell the future, so, I'm guessing, it's not gonna be long until Michael's dead."

"Pete, it could be wrong," Sylar put up his hand.

"It's hardly ever wrong, Sy," Peter said. "And you know what else? In this dream where Michael's dead? Guess who kills him?" He leaned in closer to his brother and whispered, "_You_."

"Now that's just ridiculous. I love Michael, I would never kill him. Trust me," the watchmaker defended himself.

The door opened and it revealed a tall, blonde girl, disheveled, her eyes not knowing where to settle on. The man on the floor or the younger man over heading him. "Elle, get out," Peter snarled at her.

"Peter, what the hell are you doing?" Elle asked, crouching down to Sylar's aide.

"Don't defend him, Elle," Peter flung her across the room.

At the absence of Elle, Peter began shocking his brother with blue electrical pulses, burning through his shirt, his brown eyes becoming blue with the amount of electricity going around the room. Peter stopped then gripped on Sylar's shirt and began punching him with all he had. As blood came spluttering out of Sylar's mouth, one word, one name, did, too, repeatedly like a chant, "Michael."

It was ragged and torn and broken, like a plea to the heavens, but, actually, it was a notification. It was a message to Peter to stop what he was doing because not just anyone was peeking their head through the door; it was Michael. And the three-year-old was seeing what no toddler should; he was watching his guardian, the man who took care of him and loved him unconditionally like his own, being beaten up helplessly by his father.

Finally, when Peter turned around, seeing the little pair of eyes, bulging out in fear, he got up and tried to catch him before he ran. But Peter was too late, so he just turned around to see his brother, still conscious, still bleeding, and said, "Don't tell anyone." Soon enough, a scream ran through the mansion, and the outcome wasn't what any of them expected.

* * *

Next up on DuFall:

PTSD

Another Knights letter

Erica goes over to the dark side

A special appearance from our favorite heating vent.

Review (or else!)

-Aly


End file.
